PREFACE. 


IT  is  less  easy  to  be  assured  of  the  genuineness  of  literary  ability  in  women 
than  in  men.  The  moral  nature  of  women,  in  its  finest  and  richest  develop 
ment,  partakes  of  some  of  the  qualities  of  genius  ;  it  assumes,  at  least,  the  simili 
tude  of  that  which  in  men  is  the  characteristic  or  accompaniment  of  the  highest 
grade  of  mental  inspiration.  We  are  in  danger,  therefore,  of  mistaking  for  the 
efflorescent  energy  of  creative  intelligence,  that  which  is  only  the  exuberance 
of  personal  "  feelings  unemployed."  We  may  confound  the  vivid  dreamings  of 
an  unsatisfied  heart,  with  the  aspirations  of  a  mind  impatient  of  the  fetters  of 
time,  and  matter,  and  mortality.  That  may  seem  to  us  the  abstract  imagining 
of  a  soul  rapt  into  sympathy  with  a  purer  beauty  and  a  higher  truth  than  earth 
and  space  exhibit,  which  in  fact  shall  be  only  the  natural  craving  of  affections, 
undefined  and  wandering.  The  most  exquisite  susceptibility  of  the  spirit,  and 
the  capacity  to  mirror  in  dazzling  variety  the  effects  which  circumstances  or 
surrounding  minds  work  upon  it,  may  be  accompanied  by  no  power  to  origi 
nate,  nor  even,  in  any  proper  sense,  to  reproduce.  It  does  not  follow,  because 
the  most  essential  genius  in  men  is  marked  by  qualities  which  we  may  call 
feminine,  that  such  qualities  when  found  in  female  writers  have  any  certain  or 
just  relation  to  mental  superiority.  The  conditions  of  a3sthetic  ability  in  the 
two  sexes  are  probably  distinct,  or  even  opposite.  Among  men,  we  recognise 
his  nature  as  the  most  thoroughly  artist-like,  whose  most  abstract  thoughts  still 
retain  a  sensuous  cast,  whose  mind  is  the  most  completely  transfused  and  in 
corporated  into  his  feelings.  Perhaps  the  reverse  should  be  considered  the 
test  of  true  art  in  woman,  and  we  should  deem  her  the  truest  poet,  whose  emo 
tions  are  most  refined  by  reason,  whose  force  of  passion  is  most  expanded  and 
controlled  into  lofty  and  impersonal  forms  of  imagination.  Coming  to  the  duty 
of  criticism,  however,  with  something  of  this  antecedent  skepticism,  I  have 
reviewed  the  collection  of  works  which  my  task  brought  before  me,  with  fre 
quent  admiration  and  surprise  ;  and  leaving  to  others  the  less  welcome  task  of 
rejecting  pretensions,  which  must  inspire  interest,  if  they  can  not  command 
acquiescence,  I  content  myself  with  expressing,  affirmatively,  my  own  con 
viction,  that  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Maria  Brooks,  Mrs.  Oakes-Smith,  Mrs. 


PREFACE. 


Osgood,  Mrs.  Whitman,  and  some  others  here  quoted,  illustrate  as  high  and 
sustained  a  range  of  poetic  art,  as  the  female  genius  of  any  age  or  country  can 
display.  The  most  striking  quality  of  that  civilization  which  is  evolving  itself 
in  America,  is  the  deference  felt  for  women.  As  a  point  in  social  manners,  it 
is  so  pervading  and  so  peculiar,  as  to  amount  to  a  national  characteristic  ;  and 
it  ought  to  be  valued  and  vaunted  as  the  pride  of  our  freedom,  and  the  brightest 
hope  of  our  history.  It  indicates  a  more  exalted  appreciation  of  an  influence 
that  never  can  be  felt  too  deeply,  for  it  never  is  exerted  but  for  good.  In  the 
aosence  from  us  of  those  great  visible  and  formal  institutions  by  which  Europe 
has  been  educated,  it  seems  as  if  Nature  had  designed  that  resources  of  her  own 
providing  should  guide  us  onward  to  the  maturity  of  civil  refinement.  The  in 
creased  degree  in  which  women  among  us  are  taking  a  leading  part  in  literature, 
is  one  of  the  circumstances  of  this  augmented  distinction  and  control  on  their 
part.  The  proportion  of  female  writers  at  this  moment  in  America,  far  exceeds 
that  which  the  present  or  any  other  age  in  England  exhibits.  It  is  in  the  West, 
too,  where  we  look  for  what  is  most  thoroughly  native  and  essential  in  American 
character,  that  we  are  principally  struck  with  the  number  of  youthful  female 
voices  that  soften  and  enrich  the  tumult  of  enterprise,  and  action,  by  the  inter- 
blended  music  of  a  calmer  and  loftier  sphere.  Those  who  cherish  a  belief  that 
the  progress  of  society  in  this  country  is  destined  to  develop  a  school  of  art, 
original  and  special,  will  perhaps  find  more  decided  indications  of  the  infusion 
of  our  domestic  spirit  and  temper  into  literature,  in  the  poetry  of  our  female 
authors,  than  in  that  of  our  men.  It  has  been  suggested  by  foreign  critics,  that 
our  citizens  are  too  much  devoted  to  business  and  politics  to  feel  interest  in 
pursuits  which  adorn  but  do  not  profit,  and  which  beautify  existence  but  do  not 
consolidate  power :  feminine  genius  is  perhaps  destined  to  retrieve  our  public 
character  in  this  respect,  and  our  shores  may  yet  be  far  resplendent  with  a 
temple  of  art  which,  while  it  is  a  glory  of  our  land,  may  be  a  monument  to  the 
honor  of  the  sex. 

The  American  people  have  been  thought  deficient  in  that  warmth  and  deli 
cacy  of  taste,  without  which  there  can  be  no  genuine  poetic  sensibility.  Were 
it  true,  it  were  much  to  be  regretted  that  we  should  be  wanting  in  that  noble 
capacity  to  receive  pleasure  from  what  is  beautiful  in  nature  or  exquisite  in 
art  —  in  that  venerating  sense  —  that  prophetic  recognition  —  that  quick,  intense 
perception,  which  sees  the  divine  relations  of  all  things  that  delight  the  eye  or 
kindle  the  imagination.  One  endowed  with  an  apprehension  like  this,  becomes 
purer  and  more  elevated,  in  sentiment  and  aspiration,  after  viewing  an  embodi- 


PREFACE. 


ment  of  any  such  conception  as  that  specimen  of  genius  materialized,  the  Bel- 
videre  Apollo,  "  at  the  aspect  of  which,"  says  Winckelmann,  "I  forget  all  the 
universe  :  I  involuntarily  assume  the  most  noble  attribute  of  my  being  in  order 
to  be  worthy  of  its  presence."  I  shall  not  inquire  into  the  causes  of  the  denial 
that  this  fine  instinct  exists  among  us.  The  earlier  speculations  upon  the  sub 
ject,  by  Depaw  and  others,  were  deemed  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  an 
swered  by  the  two  of  our  presidents  who  have  been  most  distinguished  in 
literature  and  philosophy :  but  they  have  been  repeated,  in  substance,  by  De 
Tocqueville,  who  had  seen,  or  might  have  seen,  the  works  of  Dana,  Bryant, 
Halleck,  Longfellow,  and  Whittier ;  of  Irving,  Cooper,  Kennedy,  Hawthorne, 
and  Willis  ;  of  Webster,  C banning,  Prescott,  Bancroft,  and  Legare  ;  of  Allston, 
Leslie,  Leutze,  Huntington,  and  Cole  ;  of  Powers,  Greenough,  Crawford, 
Clevenger,  and  Brown.  Such  prejudices,  which  could  not  be  dispelled  by  the 
creations  of  these  men,  will  be  little  affected  by  anything  that  could  be  offered 
here :  yet  to  an  understanding  guided  by  candor,  the  additional  display  of  a 
body  of  literature  like  the  present,  exhibiting  so  pervading  an  aspiration  after 
the  beautiful  —  under  circumstances,  in  many  cases,  so  little  propitious  to  its 
action  —  and  in  a  sex  which  in  earlier  ages  has  contributed  so  sparingly  to  high 
art  —  will  come  with  the  weight  of  cumulative  testimony. 

Several  persons  are  mentioned  in  this  volume  whose  lives  have  been  no 
holydays  of  leisure  :  those,  indeed,  who  have  not  in  some  way  been  active  in 
practical  duties,  are  exceptions  to  the  common  rule.  One  was  a  slave — one  a 
domestic  servant  —  one  a  factory  girl:  and  there  are  many  in  the  list  who  had 
no  other  time  to  give  to  the  pursuits  of  literature  but  such  as  was  stolen  from 
a  frugal  and  industrious  housewifery,  from  the  exhausting  cares  of  teaching,  or 
the  fitful  repose  of  sickness.  These  illustrations  of  the  truth,  that  the  muse  is 
no  respecter  of  conditions,  are  especially  interesting  in  a  country  where,  though 
equality  is  an  axiom,  it  is  not  a  reality,  and  where  prejudice  reverses  in  the 
application  all  that  theory  has  affirmed  in  words.  The  propriety  of  bringing 
before  the  world  compositions  produced  amid  humble  and  laborious  occupa 
tions,  has  been  vindicated  by  Bishop  Potter,  with  so  much  force  and  elegance, 
in  his  introduction  to  the  Poems  of  Maria  James,  that  I  regret  that  the  limits 
of  this  preface  forbid  my  copying  what  I  should  wish  every  reader  of  this  book 
to  be  acquainted  with. 

When  I  completed  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,"  a  work  of  which 
the  public  approval  has  been  illustrated  in  the  sale  of  ten  large  editions,  I 
determined  upon  the  preparation  of  the  present  volume,  the  appearance  of 


PREFACE. 


which  has  been  delayed  by  my  interrupted  health.  I  must  be  permitted,  how 
ever,  to  congratulate  with  the  public,  that  since  my  intention  was  announced 
and  known,  others  have  relieved  me  from  the  responsibility  of  singly  executing 
that  which  I  had  been  hardy  enough  singly  to  plan  and  propose.  Their  merits 
may  compensate  for  my  deficiencies.  The  first  volume  of  this  nature  which 
appeared  in  this  country,  was  printed  in  Philadelphia  in  1S44,  under  the  title 
of  "Gems  from  American  Female  Poets,  with  brief  biographies,  by  Rufus  W. 
Griswold."  As  Mr.  T.  B.  Read,  in  his  "  Female  Poets  of  America,"  (it  is 
Mr.  Read's  publisher  who  declares,  in  the  advertisement  to  this  work,  that  "the 
biographical  notices  which  it  contains  have  been  prepared  in  every  instance  from 
facts  either  within  his  personal  knowledge,  or  communicated  to  him  directly  by 
the  authors  or  their  friends,")  and  Miss  C.  May,  in  her  "American  Female 
Poets,"  (in  the  preface  to  which  she  acknowledges  a  resort  to  "  printed  authori 
ties,")  have  done  me  the  honor  to  copy  that  slight  performance  with  only  a  too 
faithful  closeness,  I  owe  them  apologies  for  having  led  them  into  some  errors  of 
fact.  Both  of  them,  transcribing  from  the  "  Gems,"  speak  of  Mrs.  Mowatt  as 
the  daughter  of  "  the  late"  Mr.  Samuel  Gouverneur  Ogden  :  I  am  happy  to  con 
tradict  the  record,  by  staling  that  Mr.  Ogden  still  enjoys  in  health  and  vigor  the 
honors  of  living  excellence.  Mr.  Read,  reproducing  my  early  mistake,  has 
given  Mrs.  Hall  the  Christian  name  of  Elizabeth,  and  the  birthplace  of  Boston. 
Nothing  but  the  extraordinary  haste  with  which  the  trifling  volume  of  1844  was 
put  together,  could  excuse  my  ignorance  that  the  name  of  the  authoress  of 
"Miriam"  was  Louisa  Jane,  and  that  she  was  a  native  of  Newburyport.  In 
one  or  the  other  of  these  volumes  are  many  more  errors,  for  which  I  confess 
myself  solely  responsible:  but  it  would  be  tedious  to  point  them  out,  while  it 
would  be  scarcely  necessary  to  do  so,  as  they  will  undoubtedly  be  corrected, 
from  the  present  work,  should  the  volumes  referred  to  attain  to  second  editions. 

It  is  proper  to  state  that  a  large  number  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  are  now 
for  the  first  time  printed.  Many  authors,  with  a  confidence  and  kindness  which 
are  justly  appreciated,  not  only  placed  at  my  disposal  their  entire  printed  works, 
but  gave  me  permission  to  examine  and  make  use  of  their  literary  M8S.  without 
limitation. 

FEW  YORK,  December,  1848. 


PREFACE  TO  THIS    EDITION. 


twenty-five  years  have  passed  since  the  first  publication  of  "  THE 
FEMALE  POETS  OF  AMEKICA,"  of  which  a  new  and  enlarged  edition  is  here 
presented  to  the  reader.  Many  who  figured  in  its  pages  then  have  passed 
away,  and  others  who  remain  have  passed  out  of  the  remembrance  of  their 
contemporaries.  It  might  almost  be  said  that  a  new  school  of  poetry  has 
arisen,  and  a  new  race  of  female  poets  come  into  existence  since  this  col 
lection  was  first  made.  There  is  little  or  no  similarity  between  the  writers 
whom  I  have  added  to  it,  arid  those  whom  Dr.  Griswold  delighted  to  honor, 
and  from  whose  writings  he  selected  so  lavishly.  If  he  were  alive  now  I 
have  no  doubt  but  that  he  would  prefer  the  latter  to  the  former,  but  he 
would  hardly  be  able  to  bring  his  readers  to  his  way  of  thinking.  We  have 
outgrown  such  singers  of  spontaneous  verse  as  Mrs.  Hemans  and  Miss  Lan- 
don,  and  we  insist  that  our  songstresses  shall  outgrow  them,  too.  If  they 
must  reflect  other  minds,  those  minds  must  be  of  a  larger  order  than  their 
own,  or  we  will  none  of  them — at  second-hand.  There  is,  if  I  am  not  mis 
taken,  more  force  and  more  originality — in  other  words,  more  genius — in 
the  living  female  poets  of  America  than  in  all  their  predecessors,  from  Mis 
tress  Anne  Bradstreet  down.  At  any  rate  there  is  a  wider  range  of 
thought  in  their  verse,  and  infinitely  more  art. 

I  have  not  meddled  with  Dr.  Griswold's  selections,  which  are  not  in  all 
cases,  perhaps,  such  as  I  should  have  chosen,  and  I  have,  of  course,  let  his 
criticisms  stand  for  what  they  are  worth:  they  are  generally  generous, 
never,  I  believe,  severe.  I  have  been  obliged,  however,  to  alter  his  text  in 
several  instances,  either  because  the  ladies  to  whom  it  referred  have  mar 
ried,  or  died,  or  both,  since  it  was  first  written.  I  have  endeavored  to 


PREFACE    TO   THIS    EDITION. 


state  with  accuracy  the  dates  of  birth  and  death,  but  have  not  been  able  to 
do  so  in  a  number  of  instances,  owing  to  the  usual  sins  of  omission  in 
American  biographical  works.  Dr.  Griswold  appears  to  have  shrunk  from 
fulfilling  this  part  of  his  task, — at  least  so  far  as  the  dates  of  birth  were  con 
cerned,  for  reasons  which  may  be  conjectured, — as  I  have  myself.  If  I  may 
allude  to  so  delicate  a  matter  as  a  lady's  age,  the  age  of  no  lady  whose  poe 
try  is  included  in  the  additions  which  I  have  made  will  ever  be  known 
through  any  indiscretion  of  mine.  I  have  to  thank  these  ladies  for  infor 
mation  furnished  with  regard  to  their  poems,  as  well  as  their  publishers  for 
permission  to  select  what  I  chose  from  their  works ;  especially  Messrs.  J.  R. 
Osgood  &  Co.,  by  whom  the  greater  number  are  published. 

R.  H.  STODDAKD. 

NEW  YOKE,  July  23, 1873. 


CONTENTS. 


IW  MWDtTCTrOS PAOB      O 

MRS.  ANNE  BRADSTREET. 

A  Contemporary  of  Spenser  and  Shakspere 17 

Editions  of  her  Poems  published  in  Boston  and  London 17 

John  Woodbridge's  Account  of  her  and  her  Works 17 

Du  Bartas  the  Fashionable  Poet  of  the  Age 18 

Verses  to  her,  and  Notices  of  her,  by  Nath.  Ward,  B.  Wood- 
bridge,  John  Norton,  Cotton  Mather,  and  President  Rogers.  IS 

Extracts  from  her  Poems  addressed  to  her  Husband 19 

An  Elegy  upon  the  Death  of  her  Grandchild 19 

Verses  in  her  old  Age  upon  the  Death  of  her  Daughter-in-law.   19 

Her  Death,  Character,  and  Descendants 19 

Extract  from  the  Prologue  to  the  Four  Elements 19 

Extract  from  Contemplations 20 

MRS.  MERCY  WARREN. 

Social  Position  and  Connexion  with  Public  Affairs 21 

Notice  of  her  Satire  entitled  The  Group,  with  Extracts 21 

Notices  of  her  Tragedies,  The  Sack  of  Rome,  and   The  Ladies 

of  Castile,  with  Extracts 22 

Extracts  from  other  Poe.ns 22 

Things  necessary  to  the  Life  of  a  Woman 23 

Acquaintance  with  John  Adams  and  Washington 23 

History  of  the  American  Revolution 23 

Character,  and  Rochefoucault's  Opinion  of  her 23 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  GRAEME  FERGUSON. 

Society  in  Philadelphia  before  the  Revolution 24 

Mrs.  Ferguson's  Family— Disappo'ntment  in  Love— Voyage  to 

Europe — Acquaintance  with  Laurence  Sterne,  &c 24 

Her  Marriage,  and  Relations  with  the  Whigs  and  Tories 25 

Connexion  with  Dr.  Duche,  and  Affair  of  General  Reed 25 

Her  later  Years 25 

Character  of  her  Poems  and  Translations 25 

Invocation  to  Wisdom 26 


fri 


Telemachi. 


26 

The  Procession  of  Calypso '2fi 

Apollo  with  the  Flocks  of  King  Admctus 27 

The  Invasion  of  Love 27 

MRS.  ANNE  ELIZA  BLEECKER. 

Early  Years,  Marriage,  and  Removal  to  Tomhanick 28 

Extract  from  a  Poem  descriptive  of  her  Home 28 

Extracts  from  Verses  addressed  to  Mr.  Bleecker 28 

Flight  from  Tomhanick  on  the  Approach  of  the  British  Army..  28 

Lines  written  on  this  Event 28 

Visit  to  New  York,  last  Return  to  Tomhanick,  and  Death 29 

MRS.  PHILLIS  WHEATLEY  PETERS. 

Purchased  while  a  Child,  in  the  Boston  Slave  Market 30 

Her  early  Acquirements  and  the  Interest  they  excited .30 

Visits  London,  and  is  introduced  to  Lady  Huntingdon 30 

Curious  Address  to  the  Public  respecting  her,  by  the  Governor 

of  Massach usetts,  and  Others SO 

Loses  her  Master,  and  marries  fora  Home 30 

The  Abbe  Gregoire's  Account  of  her 30 

Her  Husband  a  "  handsome  Man  and  a  Gentleman" 31 

She  quarrels  with  him  without  good  Reason 31 

General  Washington's  Letter  to  her 31 

Her  inedited    MSS.  now  in  Philadelphia 31 

Mr.  Jefferson  compares  her  to  the  Heroes  of  the  Dunriad 31 

Opinions  respecting  her  by  Gregoire,  Clarkson,  and  others 31 

On  the  Death  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  George  Whitefield 32 

Extract  from  a  Poem  On  the  Imagination 32 

A  Farewell  to  America 32 

MRS.  SUSANNAH  ROWSON. 

Her  Father  a  British  Officer  in  New  England 33 

Her  Marriage  in  London  and  Literary  Life  there 33 

Great  Sale  of  her  Charlotte  Temple 33 

Her  Character  and  Career  as  an  Actress 3:3 

Retires  from  the  Stage,  and  establishes  a  School  in  Boston 33 

Account  of  her  Works -  33 

America,  Commerce,  and  Freedom 34 

Kiss  the  Brim,  and  Let  it  Pass 34 

Thanksgivixg 34 

MRS.  MARG/vRETTA  V.  FAUGERES. 

A  Daughter  of  Mrs.  Bleeoker 35 


Unfo 


,ofh 


SB 


Review  of  her  Belisarhtt,  a.  Tragedy 35 

Extract  from  her  Poem  on  The  Hudson 37 

Vtrt€t  addressed  to  the  Members  of  the  Cincinnati 37 


MISS  ELIZA  TOWNSEND. 

Mr.  Nicholas  Biddle's  Opinion  of  her  Prize  Ode r*o»  38 

She  is  educated  during  a  Period  of  singular  Excitement 33 

Southey's  Ode  on  Napoleon,  written  in  1814,  like  hers  of  1809..  38 

Dr.  Cheever's  Commendation  of  one  of  her  Poems 38 

An  Occasional  Ode,  written  in  June,  1809 39 

Poem  To  Robert  Smtthey,  wiitten  in  1812 41 

The  Incomprehensibility  of  God 42 

Another  "  Castle  in  the  Air" 43 

Extract  from  a  Poem  On  the  Death  of  C has.  Brockdcn  Brotvti.  43 

MRS.  LAVINIA  STODDARD. 

Her  History  and  Character 44 

The  Sours  Dejiance 44 

Sons 44 


MISS  HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 

Her  Father 45 

Sprightliness  and  Individuality  of  ber  Genius 45 

A  Name  in  the  Sand 45 

Changes  on  the  Deep 48 

The  Scar  of  Lexington 47 

The  Snow  Flake 47 

The  Winds 48 

The  Frost 48 

The  Waterfall 43 

The  Moon  upon  the  Spire 49 

The  Robe 49 

The  Consignment 49 

The  Winter  Burial 60 

The  Pebble  and  the  Acorn 60 

The  Ship  is  Ready 50 

The  Child  on  the  Beach 51 

The  Midnight  Mail 61 

MRS.  CAROLINE  OILMAN. 

Marries  Dr.  Gilman,  and  resides  in  South  Carolina 52 

Notices  of  her  Prose  Writings  and  Poems '. 52 

Rosalie 52 

The  Plantation 54 

Music  on  the  Canal 55 

The  Congressional  Burying-Ground 65 

To  the  Ursulines 56 

Return  to  Massachusetts 66 

Annie  in  the  Graveyard 66 

MRS.  SARAH  JOSEPHA  HALE. 

Her  Marriage  and  subsequent  Literary  Studies 57 

Publishes  The  Genius  of  Oblivion  and  other  Poems 67 

Character  of  Northwood  and  her  other  Prose  Works 67 

Editor  of  The  Ladies'1  Magazine,  the  Lady's  Book,  &c 57 

Publishes  Three  Hours,  or  the  Vigil  of  Love,  and  other  Poems..  57 

Her  Ormond  Grosrenor,  Harry  Guy,  and  other  Poems 58 

Extent  of  her  Writings,  and  their  Character 58 

The  Mississippi. f>9 

The  Ftnir-Leoved  Clover 60 

Description  of  Alice  Ray 60 

Iron 61 

The  Watcher 61 

I  Sing  to  Him 63 

The  Light  (if  Home 62 

The  Two  Maidens 64 

MRS.  ANNA  MARIA  WELLS. 

Her  Husband  an  Author 63 

Publication  of  her  Poems,  in  1830 63 

*•««»<* «» 

The  Tamed  Eagle 63 

The  Old  Elm-Tree 64 

Anna 64 

The  Future 64 

The  White  Hare & 

The  Sea-Bird 65 

MISS  MARIA  JAMES. 

Her  Poems  published  by  Bishop  Potter 66 

Her  own  Account  of  her  Life 66 

Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July 67 

The  Pilgrims 67 

The  Soldier's  Grave <* 

Too  Singing-Bird 6» 

Good  Friday ••- ^ 


10 


CONTENTS. 


MRS.  MARIA   BROOKS,  (Maria  del  Occidents) 

Her  Early  Life  passed  in  the  Vicinity  of  Boston PAGE  69 

Changs  of  Fortune  described,  in  an  Extract  from  Idomen 69 

Publishes  Judith,  Esther,  unit  other  Poems 69 


:>f  this  Voli 


TO 


Cvpidtkt  Runaway,  from  the  Greek  of  Moschus 70 

Death  of  her  Husband,  Residence  in  Cuba,  and   Travels 70 

Mr.  Southey  superintends  the  1'ublication  of  Zophiel 70 

Verses  addressed  to  him 70 

Review  of  '/.ophiel,  with  Extracts 71 

Creative  Energy.  Passion,  and  Delicacy,  exhibited  in  it 79 

Its  Publication  in  Huston 79 

Opini  .us  D|' it  by  .Sunthey,  Cluirles  Lamb,  and  others,  (Note,)..  79 


Mrs.  Brookf'l  Residence  at  West  Point  and  Fort  Columbus...  79 

Prints  Id-mien,  for  Private  Circulation 79 

Her  Lifeund  Character  illustrated  in  tliat  Work 80 

Visits  her  Estate  in  Cuba 80 

Extru-ts  from  her  Letters 80 

Her  Death 80 

Further  Extracts  from  Zop/iiel 8L 

Ode  ott  Revisiting  Cu/ia 83 

Ode  to  the  Depai  ted 84 

Hymn »6 

The  Moon  of  Flowers 86 

Tothe  River  St.  Lawrence 87 

To  Niagara 88 

Verses  Written  on  Seeing  Pharamond 88 

Prayer 88 

Song 89 

Friendt/t ij> 89 

Farewell  to  Cuba 89 

•IRS.  JULIA  RUSH  WARD. 

Marries  .Samuel  Ward,  the  Banker 90 

Literary  Society  in  New  York  at  this  Period 90 

"Sije  te  perd,  je  suis  perdu"  ^ 9U 

MRS.  LYDIA  HUNTLEY  S1GOURNEY. 

Her  Early  Life 91 

Publication  of  her  Moral  Pieces,  in  Prose  and  Verse HI 

Marries  Mr.  Charles  Sigourney 91 

Keview  of  Traits  of  the  Aborigines 91 

Works  in  Prose  and  Verse,  for  Twenty  Years 9-2 


SI 


Review  of  I'ocahontas 9-2 

Her  Pleasant  Memorief  of  Pleasant  Lands,  &c 92 


Her  P 


.ud  Mt 


Mr.  Alexander  H.  Everett's  Opinion  of  her  Poems 93 

The  Western  Emigrant 94 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers 94 

W*>ie- 95 

Niagara 95 

The  Alpme  Flowers 95 

Napoleon's  Epitaph 96 

The  Death  if  an  Infant 96 

M'tio,/,,  on  Mrs.  Hemant 97 

The  Mother  of  Washington 97 

The  Country  Church 98 

Solitude 98 

Sunset  on  the  Allegany 98 

The  Indian  Girl's  Burial 99 

Indian  Names 99 

A  Butterfly  on  a  Child's  Grave 9<j 

Monody  on  the  late  Daniel  Wadsworth ]  00 

Advertisement  of  a  Lost  Day 1 00 

Farewell  to  a  Rural  Residence 101 

A  Widow  at  her  Daughter's  Bridal.  - 101 

MRS.  KATHARINE   A.   WARE. 

Edits  T/ie  fioiver(f  Taste 102 

Hesi.lence  abroad,  and  Death,  in  Paris 102 

Her  Power  ->f  the  Passions,  and  other  Poems m-i 

Loss  of  the  First- Born u>2 

Madness 103 

A  New  Year's  Wish c ." 1 0:j 

Ma rks  of  Time 1 03 

MRS.  JANE  L.  OKAY. 

Her  Residence  on  the  Forks  of  the  Delaware 104 

James  Montgomery's  Opinion  of  a  Poem  by  her 104 

Two  Hundred  Years  .Igo 104 

SaMialh  Reminiscence! J  05 

Morn 10(3 

MRS.  SOPHIA  L.  LITTLE. 

A  Daughter  of  the  Jurist  and  Statesman  Ashnr  Rohl.ins 107 

Notices  of  he'  Works .....107 

Tht  Pot: 10? 

Thanksgiving 108 

URS.  LYD1A   MARIA  CHILD 

On"!  of  our  most  brilliant  Pn.se  Writers 110 

Man.ts  amid  the  Ruins  of  Carthage 110 

Litiri  c*  hearing  a  Buy  mock  the  Soundofa  Clock no 


MRS.  LOUISA  J.  HALL. 

Educated  by  Dr.  Park,  her  Father 

Her  feeble  Constitution 

Circumstances  under  which  Miriam  was  written.. 

Her  Joanna  of  Naples,  and  other  Works 

Review  of  Miriam,  with  Extracts 

Character  of  the  Work 

Justice  and  Mercy 

A  Dramatic  Fragment 

MRS.  ELIZA  L.  FOLLEV. 

Death  of  her  Husband,  Professor  Charles  Follen. 

Her  Writings 

Sachem',  Hill ."I!...'"".'..... 

Winter  Scene  in  the  Country I".'..... 

Evening 

MRS.  FRANCES  H.  GREEN. 

The  Misfortunes  of  her  Father 

She  writes  a  Memoir  of  Eleanor  Elbricige,  Ac 

The  Mechanic,  by  her,  commended  by  Mr.  Brownsi 

Notice  of  Nanuntenoo 


P1G1  III 

Ill 

Ill 

Ill 

11J 

117 


..lid 

..'21 
..111 
..ill 
..123 

..122 


Her  Songt  of  the  Winds,  and  other  Poems 
Opinions  in  Philosophy  and  Religion 
New  England  Summer  in  the  Ancient  Time 
A  Sarragansett  Sachem 


Songofthe  North  Wind 

Song  of  the  East  Wind 

Song  of  Winter 

The  Ch ickadee's  Song 

The  Honey- Bee's  Song 

MRS.  JESSIE  G.  McCARTEE. 

A  Descendant  of  Isabella  Graham 

Character  of  her  Poems 

The  Indian  Mother's  Lament 

T/te  Eagle  of  the  Falls 

Death-Song  of  Moses 

How  Beautiful  is  Sleep 

MISS  CYNTHIA  TAGGART. 

H er  interesting  H istory 

Letter  from  Dr.  John  VV.  Francis  respecting  her. 

Merit  of  her  Writings 

Ode  to  the  Poppy 

Invocation  to  Health.... 


On  a  Storm 

MRS.  FRANCESCA  PASCALIS  CANF1ELD. 

The  Scientific  Labors  of  her  Father 

Dr.  Mitchill's  Valentine  to  her 

Her  Learning  ami  Accomplishments 

Unfortunate  Marriage,  and  Death 

Verses  To  Dr.  Mitchill 

Edith 

MISS  ELIZABETH  BOGART. 

Writings  under  the  Signature  of  "  Estelle" 

An  Autumn  View,  from  my  Window 

Retrospection. 

Forgerf, finest ' 

He  Came  too  Late 

MRS.  MARY  E.  BROOKS. 

Marriage  with  James  G.  75rooks 

Publishes  The  Rivals  of  Ette,  and  other  Poems... 

Death  of  Mr.  Brooks 

The  Close  of  the  Year 

A  Pledge  to  the  Dying  Year 

"  Weep  not  for  the  Dead" 

Dream  of  Life 

MRS.  MARGARET  ST.  LEON  LOUD. 

Her  KesMence  in  the  South 

Mr.  Poe's  Opinion  of  her  Writings 

A  Dream  of  the  Lonely  Isle 

The  Deserted  Homestead 

Pra  <ier  for  an  Absent  Husband 

Rest  in 'the  Grave.... 


..123 
..123 
..123 
.123 
..123 
,.123 
.124 
.124 
.125 
.127 
.128 
.129 
.130 
.130 

.131 
.131 
.131 
.131 

-.  132 
.132 

.133 
.133 
.133 
.133 
.134 
.134 
.134 


..137 
..137 


MR?.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

Publishes  Guido  and  other  Poems 

Character  of  her  Tales 

Her  Nature's  Gems,  and  other  Worns 

Two  I 'ortraitf.  from   Life 

Tlie  Duke  of  Reichstadt 

Sympathy 

Autumn  Evening 


Harp.. 


The  .Kolin 

Unrest 

T!ie  Old  Man's  Lame, 
The  American  River.. 
Tht  English  River... , 


.139 
.139 
.140 
.140 
.140 

.141 
.141 
.141 
.142 
.14-7 
.14-] 

.143 
.143 
.143 
.143 
.144 
.144 
.144 
.i4S 
.145 
.14.1 
.145 
.145 
.146 


CONTENTS. 


11 


MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY,  (CONTINUED.) 

BcMa'J. 

Cheerfulness 

The  Widwft  Woo<r 

Madame  de  Sluel 

Heart  Questionings 

Never  Forg  et 


PAGE    147 

147 

147 

148 

148 

148 


MISS  ELIZABETH   MARGARET  CHANDLER. 

A  Member  of  tlie  Society  of  Friends 149 

Removal  to  Michigan,  and  Death  there 149 

Her  Works 149 

The  I) e cote d. 149 

T/te  Battle- Field 150 

A  Revolutionary  Soldier's  Prayer 150 

The  Brandt/wine 151 

MISSES  LUCRETIA  AND   MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Their  Genius  and  Interesting  Character 152 

The  First  Compositions  of  Lucretia  Davidson 152 

Verses  on  the  Grave  of  Wa>hingion 153 

Visits  Canada 1 53 

Lines  to  her  Infant  Sister 153 

Writes  Amir  Khan 153 

Her  Death 153 

Memoirs  of  her  by  Mr.  Morse  and  Miss  Sedgwick 153 

Her  Poem  addressed  to  Mrs.  Townsend 153 

To  a  Slur 153 

A  Prophecy 1 54 

Auction  Extraordinary 154 

Address  to  her  Mother 154 

On  the  Fear  uf  Madness lr,5 

Effect  ofher  Death  upon  Margaret  Davidson 155 

Margaret's  Education , , 155 

Verses,  "  /  would  Jiy  from  the  City" 155 

Changes  of  Residence 155 

Her  Death 156 

Lenore  to  the  Spirit  of  Lticretia 156 

Stanzas  tn  her  Mother 156 

The  Writings  of  M rs.  Davidson 156 

MRS.  MARY  E.  STEBBINS. 

Poems  under  the  Signature  of  "  lone1' 157 

Publishes  Songs  of  our  Land,  and  other  Poems 157 

Character  of  her  Poerns 157 

The  Songs  of  our  Land 157 

The  Two  Voices 158 

The  Axe  of  the  Settler 158 

A  Thought  of  the  Pilgrims 159 

The  City  by  the  Sea 169 

1\e  Sunflower  to  the  Sim 160 

The  Last  Chant  of  Corinne 160 

Green  Places  in  the  City 160 

Cameos 160 

A  Yarn 161 

Imitation  of  Sappho 161 

Love's  Pleading 16-2 

The  Hearth  of  Home 162 

The  Launch 162 

The  Ode  of  Harold  the  Valiant 163 

Lay 163 

MRS.  SUSAN  R.  A.  BARNES. 

Characteristics  of  her  Works 164 


The  Army  of  the  Cross lt,5 

Penitence 1 55 

MRS.  SARAH   HELEN  WHITMAN. 

Descended  from  a  Companion  of  Roger  Williams 166 

The  Career  and  Death  of  her  Husband Ifi6 

Her  Acquirements,  and  Writings  in  Prose 166 

Her  Fairy  Tales 166 

Remarkable  Merits  of  her  Poems 166 

The  Sleeping  Beauty 167 

Line*  irrilten  in  November 169 

A  Still  Day  in  Autumn 169 

"  A  Green  and  Silvery  Spot  among  the  Hills" 170 

The  Waking  of  the  Heart 170 

A  Day  of  the  Indian  Summer 171 

Translation  of  The  Lost  Church 172 

The  Past 172 

A  September  Day  on  the  Banks  of  the  Moshassitck 173 

Summer's  Invitation  to  the  Orphan 173 


Bridal  Ring. 


Stt 

"She  Blooms  no  more" 174 

The  Maiden's  Dream '. 174 

Poem  before  the  Rhode  Island  Hist.  Soc.,  upon  Roger  Williams..  176 

"Hoio  softly  comes  the  Summer  Wind" 175 

A  Smis  of  Spring 176 

On  a  Statue  of  David ...176 


MRS.  ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 

Her  Descent  from  the  Pilgrims PAGE  177 

Her  Marriage 177 

Circumstances  under  which  she  has  written 177 

Remarks  on  The  Sinless  Child,  with  Extracts 178 

Her  D ramas 1 79 

Review  of  The  Roman  Tribute,  with  Extracts 180 

Review  of  Jam/,  Leisler,  a  Tragedy 18-J 

Scene  from  Jacob  Leisler 183 

Her  Prose  Works 183 

Writings  nnder  the  Name  of"  Ernest  Helfenstein" 183 

H»>r  Hank  among  the  Female  Poets 183 

Tim  Acorn 1^4 

The  Drowned  Mariner 1 86 

Totlu  Hudson i*} 

Sonnets- 1^7 

I-  Poesy lift 

II.    The  Bard 187 

III.  An  Incident 187 

IV.  The  Unattained 187 

V.   The  Wife W7 

VI.  Religion 187 

VII.   The  Dream 1*7 

VIII.   Wayfarers ..".IW 

1 X.,  X.  Heloise  to  Abelard 188 

XI.   Despondency )»8 

XII.  Love 188 

XIII.  "Look  not  behindThee" 188 

XI V.  Charity  in  Despair  of  Justice 188 

XV.   The  Great  Aim 1 88 

XVI.  Midnight 188 

XVII.  Jealousy 189 

Ecce  Homo 189 

Ode  to  Sappho 189 

Love  Dead 190 

Stanzas 190 

Endurance 190 

Ministering  Spirits 19] 

The  Recall,  or  Soul  Melody 191 

The  Water ;..... 191 

The  Brook 191 

The  Cou-.ry  Maiden 193 

Ttie  April  Rain 19C 

Atheism >93 

Let  Me  be  a  Fantasy 194 

Strength  from  the  Hills 194 

Eros  and  Anteros 194 

The  Poet 19* 

MRS.  E.  C.  KINNEY. 

Account  of  her  Writings 190 

Characterized, by  a  Correspondent 195 

To  the  Eagle 195 

Ode :  To  the  Moon 196 

The  Spirit  of  Song 197 

Extract  from  The  Quakeress  Bride 197 

Sonnets: 198 

I.   Cultivation 198 

II.   Encouragement 198 

III.  Fading  Autumn 198 

I V.  A   Winter  Nighj 198 

V.   To  the.  Greek  Slave 11V 

VI.   To  Arabella 19? 

The  Woodman 194 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  F.  ELLET. 

Hei  Domestic  Connexions 19S 

Translates  Euphemia  of  Messina 199 

Production  of  her  Teresa  Conrarini 199 

Papers  in  the  Reviews 199 

Her  Characters  of  Schiller,  Joanna  of  Sicily,  and  other  Works . .  199 

Characteristics  ofher  Poems 1W 

Snsqnehannah 200 

Lake  Ontario 201 

The  Delaware  Water-Gap 201 

Insensibility 201 


Love,  in  Youth  and  Age 201 

SodusBay 202 

"O'er  the  Wild  Waste" 202 

Song 202 

The  old  Love - 2l  )3 

The  Sea-Kings 203 

Venice 


Sonnetti '204 

I.  Mary  Magdalen 204 

II.   Tlie* Good  Shepherd 204 

III.  "Oh,  Weary  Heart" *»* 

"  Abide  with  Us" • 204 

The  Persexaed 20« 

A  Dirge 2°* 

TheBuriil. *°» 


CONTENTS. 


.MKS.  JCI.IA  H.  SCOTT. 

Her  Early  Lite  and   lie.iutif.il  Char»<  ter 
II  »T  M;irri:i-f,  Mini    Death 
U.-r  PotlM  pnbtt  h.-d   by  Mis-  K  i-  irti.n 
7V  7Vo  <7rai>« 

./>/./  c/i,/,/ 

•rum  in  I'nflry 
MRS.  ANNA    I'EYKF.   MINNIES. 

Mrs.  l!:,i,.'s  AfiCOMrtofhei  Marriage 
Sin-  writ.-*  under  tli.-  BJflMtttn  of  "  Moin;t" 
Publish.-  7V  l''l<,ri.il   IVar 
If'-ddrd  Lm-e 


toi  205 

206 

....206 

206 

207 

. . . . 207 


203 
208 


;•.•„,  /,/,-,„<  ....................................................  209 

7V  7V  »r  Ballad  -:f  a  H;,Hderrr  .............................  20!) 


MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 

The  Spi.it  .ind  Poj.ulaiity  of  her  Prose  Writings  ..............  210 

7V  01,1  .-/,)/,/<•  Tree  .......................................       210 

MRS.    V.    K     ST.  .JOHN. 

E\t.-nt  of  her  Productions  ...................................  211 

Medusa,   fr  <m  tin  .Iniiijne  Cameo  .............................  211 

MRS.  3ARAI!    I.iiClSA   P.  SMITH. 

A  (iranddauihrerofr.eneral  Hull  ............................  212 

I  miiel  .Jenks  Smith  ..........................  212 

.-I'  Etteidmee,  :..id  Literary  ArUvity  .................  212 

II.  r  Death.  and  the  Character  of  her  Poems  .................  212 

T:,f    Ihima  ..................................................  212 

White  Roses  .................................................  212 

Xl.mz,,*  .....................................................  2J3 

We  Fall  of  11'anaw  ........................................  213 

MR.-.  SOPHIA    HKI.K.N   OLIVER. 

Herl'oem*  ..................................................  214 

"  /  murk  the  I  fours  that  S/tine"  ...............................  21  4 

Tl.e  Cloud  Ship  ..............................................  214 

The  Shadows  ................................................  215 

.17.  nistrrins  Spirits  .....................      ....................  215 

MISS    MARY    E.    I.KK. 

H.-r  P.alhd-t  and  other  Poems  ................................  216 

The  Potts  ...................................................  216 

A>i   F.asfcrn  Lore-Kong  ......................................  216 

The  Last  Place  of  Sleep  ......................................  216 

MRS    CATHERINE  H.  ESL1NG. 

r.  Come  Home"  .....................................  217 

'  //,  KMJ  our  Puttier's  Darling"  .............................  217 

MRS.   CAROM  NT.    M.   S  A  \\  V  K  II. 

Her  Early  Education  ........................................  218 

Acquaintance  with  Foreign  Literatures  .......................  218 

Disadvantageous  Channels  of  Publication  .....................  218 

............................................  218 

Intidr/itii  iiinl  Religion  ..'.  ....................................  21!) 

The  J'alley  of  Pence  .........................................  219 

Tht  Boy  and  hit  .hi-^i  ......................................  220 

Tfie  Laihi  t>f  Lurid  ..........................................  2-iI 

'/•-     II    •'     /:.„.  >n.  itrnnre  ....................................  221 

M'/  .S-,V,y.,,,-   Clti/ilrt-n  .......................................  ?22 

*l,it,t,j>,ic  ..............................................  223 

The  ll'tirri'i-'s  Dirge  ........................................  224 

Kenyan  ..........  '.  .........................................  224 

I'ebblei  .....................................................  224 

MRS-   MXKCiARKT   L.   ItAII.EY. 

Her  Editorial   Labors  ........................................  2C5 

H.  -i  Poem  ..................................................  225 

..............................................  225 

Thr  J'tii'ii,  r  (  'lulil's  liiirinl,  ..................................  225 

MemM-ui  ....................................................  226 


.1  i;,  ,'•,!',  1  ...........................................  226 

MKS.    I.U'K  \    M.   TUUKSTON. 

1,,-r  in  Indiana  ...............................  227 

Munface,  tnd  D**tt  ........................................  227 

Vida"  .......................  227 

'•  7V  Orttn  l/,/:-  if  my  r,ith,rlnml"  ........................  2:7 

.......................  227 


Miss   MARTHA    n  \V. 

H.-r  Utomy  R.-ni.,inMiubli>hed  by  Prof.-sor  Kii.--l.-y 2:8 

H;.«n •-'-'* 

'•// 228 

miss  -»i  \I;Y   i«H  H  \NMKK  DODD. 

Her   Litt-rary  As>...  iitinus 229 

rubll-atiMii  •  f  li.-r  PoeiiM 2:9 

i,,,t,tnt 229 

7Vi, •    M.,i,rn,  r 22'» 

'io  .,  CHdM 2:10 

'/•/,,    IH-ramer 2:50 

fVif  Dort't  I'ifit 231 

231 


MKS.  ANNE  O.  BOTTA. 

H.-i  Katlier  one  of  the  United  Irishmen »*o»  232 

H.-r  Ediu-atiori 232 

Literary  Soirees 2;5i 

Chara.-teristirs  of  her  Poems 232 

7V  Ideal 233 

The  Me,il  Found 2*1 

Tht  Image  Uroken 8$J 

Tli,   Untile  tif  Life 234 

Tlfni^ iits  In  n   Lihi  ani -35 

Hngar ' *•* 

To  the  Memory  of  Channing 235 

A  Thought  lui  the  Seashore 236 

The  Jhnnh  Creation '-236 

The  Wounded  V,:lture 238 

F.rni 237 

To ,in  Obscurity 2;57 

To ,  with  Flnwert 2.17 

0,i  „  1'icture  of  llarccy  Birch 2:57 

Sotmeti: 238 

I.  Love + 238 

II.   The  L,,ke  and  the  Star 238 

III.  A  Remembrance 238 

I V.  The  Sun  and  Storm 238 

V.   To 238 

VI.   The  Honey- Bee 238 

VII.  Aspiration 238 

VIII.  To  the  Savior 238 

IX.  Faith 2:s9 

Kones  in  the  Desert -~....SW 

Chriil  Betrayed 239 

Tlte  Wasted  Fountain* 240 

I'm il  I 'reaching-  at  Athens 240 

SIRS.   EMILY  JUDSON. 

Her  Wriiiiigs  tiuderthe  Pseudonym  of"  Fanny  Forester11 241 

Publication  of  Alderbrook 241 

Marriage  to  the  Missionary  Judson 241 

Goes  to  India 24-1 

H.T  .•Ittarogn,  the  Maid  of  the  Rock,  in  Four  Cantos 242 

The  Weaver 242 

Miniitcring  Angels 543 

To  my  Mother '243 

To  Spring 244 

Death 244 

L, -his  t/nd  Shades 244 

to  Earth 245 

Aspiring  to  Heaven 245 

The  lluds  ,f  the  Sarimac 245 

My  Bird 245 

MRS.   ELIZABETH  JESUP  EAMES. 

Contributions  to  the  Periodicals 246 


Cr*mi*f»SP«r**k 246 

Tlie  Death  of  Pan 247 

Cleopatra 247 

MyMothtr 247 

Sonnett: 248 

1.  Milton 24U 

1 1 .  Drtiden 248 

III.  Addisim 243 

IV.  T,i»o 243 

V.,  VI.    7V  Author  of  "  The  Sinless  Child" 248 

VII.    Tiie  I'nst 84 8 

VIII.   Diem  I'erdidi 249 

1 X . ,  X .   Ho ,,ks 249 

On  the  /'iftnre  of  a  Departed  Peetefs 249 


r 


.9  i'.i 


Flairers  in  n  S,ck-R,iom }4S 

MR^.    I  MKI.I.NK  S.  SMITH. 

Publication  of  Tlte  Fai'-y',  Search,  and  other  Poem* 250 

Hymn  to  the  Deity,  in  the  Contemplation  of  Nature 260 

"  We've  h,iti  our  Xht.re  of  Bliss,  Beloved" 2oC 

MAI:«;  VIJKT  I-TLLKK,  MAIUMIIONKSS  D'OSSOLI. 

Her  Rank  amonj;  the  Writ.-rs  of  her  Sex 251 

Governor  Everett  receiving  the  Indian  C/iiefs,  Sic 251 

Thr  Sin-red  Marriage 253 

Sonnets : 252 

I.   Orjiheut 25J 

II.   Instrumental  Music 253 

III.  Beethoven , 253 

IV.    Mo-.art 253 

V.    T,  ll'iifhin-ton  Alhtim't  Picture,  "  The  Bride" 2/%3 

To  Kdith,  on  her  Birthday 2,53 

Lin,s  it-ritten  in  Illinois 253 

On  Leaving  the  Wett 2.54 

Ganymede  to  his  Ea git 234 

Life  a  Temple 255 

Kw.inraeemeiU 256 

GunhiUlu 36J 


CONTENTS. 


13 


MUS.  LYDIA  JANE   PEIRSON. 

Her  Early  History  .................................   Pics  256 

Anecdote  of  Mrs.  Peirson  and  Thaddeus  Stevens  ...........  256 

Her  Purest  Minstrel,  and  Purest  Leaves  ......................  256 

NX  Song  ....................................................  256 

MH  Muse  ....................................................  257 

To  an  &olinn  Harp  .........................................  257 

To  the  Wood  Robin  ..........................................  258 

The  mid  mood  Home  .........................................  258 

Isabella  .....................................................  258 

Sunset  in  the  Forest  ....................  '.  ....................  259 

Tlte  last  Pale  Flowers  .......................................  259 

To  t/te  Woods  ...............................................  259 

MRS.  JAXK  TAYLOR  WORTH1NGTON. 

Her  Connexion*  in  Virginia  ..................................  260 

Marriage,  Writings,  Death  ...................................  260 

TvthePeakofQtttr  .........................................  MO 

Lines,  to  One  who  will  wide,  stand  Them  ......................  260 

Moonlight  on  the  Grave  ......................................  261 

The  Child'!  Grave  ...........................................  261 

The  Poor  ...................................................  261 

Sleep  ........................................................  262 

To  Twilight  .................................................  262 

Tlte  Withered  Leaves  ........................................  262 

MRS.  SARAH  ANNA  LEWIS. 

Publishes  Records  of  the  Heart  ...............................  263 

Tfie  forsaken,  by  her,  compared  with  a  Poem  by  Motherwell.  .263 
Review  .,f  her  Child  of  the  Sea,  with  Extracts  ................  264 

Extract  from  Isabelle,  or  the  Broken  Heart  ....................  265 

Lament  of  La  I'cga,  in  Captivity  ............................  266 

Una  ........................................................  266 

The  Dead  ...................................................  266 

MRS.  ANNA  CORA  MO  WATT  RITCHIE. 

Notice  of  her  Father  ..................................  .......  267 

Her  IJirth  and  Education,  abroad  .............................  267 

Early  Predilection  fur  the  Stage  ..........  .  ...................  267 

Story  of  her  Marriage  .......................................  267 

Publishes  Pelayo,  or  the  Cavern  ofCoeadonga  ................  267 

Residence  in  Europe  ........................................  267 

Publishes  Evelyn,  Fashion,  and  other  Works  .................  267 

Her  Theatrical  Career  .......................................  267 

Visit  to  England  .............................................  268 

The  Raising  of  J  aims'  Daughter  ............................  268 

My  Life  ....................................................  269 

Love  ........................................................  2K9 


269 


Tlty  Will  be  done 

On  a  Lock  of  my  Mother's  Hair 

MRS.  MARY  NOEL  MEIGS,  (McDONALD.) 

Publishes  TVenwty  M.N.M.  ................................  270 

j,,ne  ........................................................  270 

The  Spells  of  Memory  .......................................  271 

lane's  Aspirations  ...........................................  271 

MRS.  FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 

Literary  Abilities  in  her  Family  ...............................  272 

Writings  under  the  Signature  of"  Florence"  ..................  272 

Marriage  to  Mr.  O->good  the  Painter  ..........................  272 

____  272 


Reside 


i  in  Londc 


Publishes  A  Wreath  of  Wild  Flowers  from  New  England 272 

Her  later  Works 272 

Her  Genius, 273 

Farewell  too  Happy  Day 273 

"Had  we  but  met" 273 

To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry 274 

Rejections 274 

Ltnare 274 

The  Cocoa -Nut  Tree 275 

A  Mother's  Prayer  in  Illness 275 

Little  Children 276 

A  Sermon 276 

To  a  Child  Playing  with  a  Watch 276 

Labor 277 

Garden  Gossip 277 

To  a   Friend 277 

Kurydice 278 

Lady  Jane 278 

Ida's  Farewell 279 

To  a  Dear  little  Truant,  n-ho  wouldn't  come.  Home 279 

The  Unexpected  Declaration 279 

Slan-.a,i  for  Music -^ 

Tlte  F/ovjer  Love  Letter 280 

A   Weed 281 

Tn  Sleep 281 

Silent  hove  ••- - • •  •  ^^ 

Beauty's  Prayer 281 

Dream-Music,  or  the  Spirit  Flute 282 

New  En  S  lanfi  Mountain-  Child 283 

Ashes  of  Rosei *** 

Xtng ,  "  Its,  lower  to  the  level" 2SS 


MRS.  FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD,  (COSTISUED.) 

The  Soil's  Lament  for  Home PACK  285 


Song,  "  She  loves  Him  yet".. . 

No; 


Song,  "  Should  all  who  throng" 

"Hois  Tan  Sung,  Beaumanoir" 

Caprice 

Song,  "  I  loved  an  Ideal" 

Aspirations 

MISS  LUCY  HOOPER. 

Writings  und.«r  the  Signature  of  "  L.  H." 

Lines  written  o».  visiting  Newburyport 

Her  Works  in  Prose 

Lettei  upon  her  Death,  from  Dr.  John  W.  Francis 

Poem  on  the  same  Subject,  by  J.  G.  Whittier 

Sonnet  to  her  Memory,  by  H^  T.  Tuckerman 

Publication  of  her  Literary  Remains 

The  Summons  of  Death 

Time,  Faith,  Energy 

Last  Hours  of  a  Young  Poeteit 

The  Turquoise  Ring 

"  Give  me  Armnr  of  Proof  " 

The  Cavalier's  last  Hours 

The  Daughter  of  Hcrodias 

Evening  Thoughts 

Linen 

The  Old  Days  we  Remember 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Scene  in  "Master  Humphrey's  Clock"... 

Life  and  Death 

Legends  of  Flowers 

Osceola 

MRS.  SARAH  EDGARTON  MAYO. 

Her  Life  arid  Writings 

The  Supremacy  of  God 

The  last  Lay 

The  fieggar's  Death-Scene 

Types  of  Heaven 

The  Shadow  Child 

Udollo 

Crossing  the  Moor 

MISS  SARAH  L.  JACOBS. 

Ttie  Changeless  World 

Ilenedelta 

A  }'csper 

"  Ul,i  Amor,  Ibi  Fides" 

MRS.  LUELLA  J.  B.  CASE. 

The  Indian  Relic 

Energy  in  Adversity 

La  Revenante 

A  Death- Scene 

Death  leading  Age  to  Repose 

MRS.  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Lines  suggested  l>y  an  Anecdote  of  S.  F.  B.  Marie 

TheSpiraof  Truth 

Kentucky's  Dead 

MISS  HANNAH  J.  WOODMAN. 

The  Annunciation 

"  When  n-i/t  tliou  love  Me?" 

MISS  SUSAN  ARCHER  TALLEY. 


Compared  with  Jarne 
Variety  of  her  Abiliti* 


My  Sister - 

Tlu:  Sea- Shell 

MRS.  RKHECCA  S.  NICHOLS. 

Publishes  lin-nice,  and  other  Poems 

To  my  Boy  in  Heaven 

My  Sixter  Ellen 

Farewell  of  the  Soul  to  the  Body 

Lament  of  the  Old  Year 

The  Isle  <f  Dreams 

Tlte  Shadow • 

Little  Nell • 

The  little  Flock 


Ml 

.HI 
.SM 

.••<  ; 


Mu 


.811 

i    7 

111 

•    H 

.311 

.319 

..    i 

M 

.  BQ 


MRS.  JULIA  WARD   HOWE. 

Extract  from  the  Lifeof  Schlesinger.byher  Brother,  Sam.  Ward 
The  Beauty  of  her  Poems 
The  Burial  of  Schlesinger 
Wordsworth 

To  a  Beautiful  Statue 


Lees  from  the  r.up  of  Life 

"  Sptak,  for  thy  Servant  heareth" 

A  Mother's  Fears. 


11 


CONTENTS. 


MRS     AM  KM. A    I!     WKI.IiV. 

\v, i-i,._.    no  ;,  r  UK   -,_»i:unre  of  "  Amelm 

Publi.itj.Mi  ,,f  her  rot-Mi* 

Tli'-ir   Cli-ini  ler 

7V  /:„,„>„,„• 

/'»//>„•  r'J,,,,,ienre 

On  l-:nten,,K  tl,e  .M,,mm,*h  Cave 

Lore 

7V  Old  .M,,id 


«o«  325 


326 

:;n 

:;.s 

328 

329 

To  a  Srn-Shell 329 

7V  Laxt  Interview 3:50 

My  Sifter* 3:50 


TII,    I.  .n  if  St,]>  Son 
The  I  'moire  of  Had 


331 
332 


MRS.  CATH.  VVAHK1KM)  ANM)   M  IIS.   ELEANOR  T.KE. 

Tlie  H'.fr  ,,/•  \.r  m,  fcc.,  by  "  Two  <i,ter-  of  tlie  We.st"  .......  333 

The  India,,  Clta  ,„/„,;  and  ot/irr  J'ocmt  .......................  3.53 

Tl  ......  Work.   .  n!i.  i<ed  ......................................  333 

Their  ..tlier  Writings  ........................................  333 

.....................................................  334 

It,,  nk  ,,n  the  1'rairie  ........................................  335 

Lr£,,,d  of  the  Italian  Chamber  ...............................  3:57 

"  Sl,e  nnuft  tii  Me"   .........................................  3:59 

"lira/kin  Dream,  nf  1'octry"  ...............................  340 

.....................................................  340 


Tltf    lS,rdal'  H 

The  Deserted  rloutt..., 
HISS   SUSAK    IMNDAK. 


The  Lady  Lcnnorc . 
Laiiralie 


. . . 343 
...343 
...344 


Thmighti  tn  Sfirins-Time 

MISS  CAROLINE   MAY. 

H-i   Po*m»,  tc , 

The  Sahhath  at'  the  Year 

T-i  a  Student 

Semteut 

1.    On   a  i-arm  Nm-emlier  l)iy.. 
II.    On  th,     t/ijirani-h  of  Winter. . 

III.   Thought 

IV.    ll>i/ie 

V.  Memnry 

Lilie* 

Ta  Nature.... 


.....  346 
.....  3-46 
.....  346 
.....  347 
_____  347 
.....  347 
.....  347 
.....  347 


.347 


AI.H'K  »;.    IIAVKX. 

Write*  uncl^i  Hi--  Si-nature  of  "Alice  G.  Lee" 349 

K.IlN    Ntafl   Saturday  Ga-.ette 349 

The  llrid, 's  t'unt'xxion 340 

Miilniihi  ami  Dnyhreuk 341) 

Tlie  <  'It  itrr/t 3^9 

H"»'t :ioO 

A   M,- in  in- ii    35j 

WltS     CAROI.INK   H.   CUANDr.KH. 

Tn  mi,  Ural  her 353 

MISS  KM/A   I..  S1MIOAT. 

Tlie  /V,.,,,,,,-',-  f v.iW 353 

A  i'en'  Sinni  Xnnlitiim* 353 

'• '        .'."-".".".'384 

MIJS.    1IAKKIKT    I. IS/.T,  (WINSLOW.) 

ll'/ii,  tins  I.,., i  3g4 

MliS.  .MM  II  T    M.    I..   CAMIM5KI.L. 

II'  r    I',  uly  Culture 355 

'. 3S-> 

356 

. - •  /'  .VI/H r, -e 366 

Ml--    M.I-K   .M   -  I  ]\i:    ]'.  \VAKD. 

Horn  ..I"  :tn   Hi-torir:il  K:in,ily 3;>7 

II, T  NVri'i.,--,  Mini   II.T  Alpihli.-H 357 

A  I-',,,,,,;, I  Chant   /',»•  iltt  01,1  \;,,r :;.-)7 

-i  Old  1'inna 3,-,S 

Si''"'" ""I    /•'""".'/     3.r,8 

Thf  .V,,i  and  the  Sovereign 

.   :lt .. -)(J 

HISS    I.ITY    I.\|;<-(1M. 

A    K.I' -torv  (iirl  ;it   I.owcll O^Q 

K\tr:n  I  bum  .1.  (i.  \Vhiiti.-r,  r,--j,,-,  tj,,;  i.er .:w 

r'.h-l,,,  and   li,f  ttmgti "  "  360 

vv  /;„,-„;„,  /v,,,,,, .....".".".".981 

•    EDITH    M  \V." 

She  wntc-  ini'lfr  ;i    \,n,imr  tie  J'lnme 3f;.-, 

Tlie  Clrir.n  li-r  ol  IIIT  li'-nim 3 

'"" 


'EDITH   MAY,"  (ros 
//  \tnrm  at  Tn-ili^ht . 


W.) 


Juliette. . 

Summer 

A  F'u-fft  Srs.ne. 
A  J'oet't  Love.. 

A  Son  •_'  fin-  Ant 


364 
.364 
.366 


A  True  Story  of  ,i  Fawn  ............................. 

MISSES  FRANCES  A.  AND  MKTTA  V.  FULLER. 
Tlieir  Writin-s  for  the  "  Home  Journal"  .............. 


.3f>7 
.  367 


The  Old  Ma,,'*  Favorite  .............................. 

(II.)  The  I'fift/ioy't  Sung  ................................. 

Midn  ight  _____  ......................................... 

T)u  Silent  .Ship  ....................................... 

The  Spirit  of  my  Song  ................................ 

MISSES  ALICE  AND  PHfEBE  CAREY. 

Circiinr<trtT)ce.s  unfavorable  to  their  Development  ...... 

Extract  from  a  Letter  by  Alice  Carey  ................. 

Poems  of  A  lice  and  Phcehf  Carey  contrasted  ........... 

(1.)  'Ilie  Handmaid  ...................................... 

llinnn  of  the  New  Man  .............................. 

Palestine  ............................................. 

OldSloriet  ...............................  !  ........... 

1'irtnre*  of  Mem,**,  .................................. 

The   Tiro   Msslonat  ies  ................... 

n*i»n,  of  Light  ......................  .  ................ 

}fe/v,,  ................................................ 

The  Time  to  be  ....................................... 


..oro 

..370 
-.371 


..372 
. .  372 
. .  372 
. .  372 
..373 
..373 
-.373 
..374 
...374 
. .  374 


A  Legend  of  St.  Mary', 

Watching 

An  Evening  Tale 

George  Biirro»gh* 

Light,  of  Geniuf 

Death's  Ferryman 

Sailor'*  Song 

To  the  Evening  Zephyr 

Minings  hy  Three  Grave* 

(II.)  The  Lorcri; 

Beat-in*  Life'*  Burdens 

Resotrcs 

Light  in  Darknert 

The  Wife  of  Beitierei '.'.'. .".'.'.'. 

Tfte  FoUotem  of  Christ 

Sympathy "" 

.Son  -r  a f  the  Heart 

Tlie  1'  isoncr'i  Last  fright 

Mtmin-ie.* '.." 

Eijitalto  Either  Fortune 

Caming /fame "..." 

The  Christian  Woman 

Death  Scene ...". 

Lyre  at  tlie  Grave 

MISS  MARY  LOCKHART  LAWSON. 

Lncien  IJonapaite'.s  Opinion  oflier  Father 

Her  English  and   Scotti.-li  Poems 

The  lianixhed  Lover ." 

Believe  it _" 

The  Haunted  Heart 


-.375 
..375 
..376 
-.376 
-.377 
. .  377 
..378 
..378 
..378 
-.378 
-.379 
..380 
..380 
..381 
-.381 
..381 
..382 
.383 


..383 

.384 
.384 
.384 
.386 


MRS.    MARIA    I.OWKI.L. 

Ordinal  nrid  Translated  Poems 

J,-sn.i  and  the  Dove 

The  Maiden's  Hanest '.'.'.'.'.".'.'.'.'" 

S»ng,  "  Oh,  /linl,  thnu  dartett  to  the  Sim" 

Tlie  Morning-Glory 

MI'.S.   SAKA  J.   LIIM'INCOTT. 

Karly  Residence  in  K<x:liester 

Writings  under  tl.e  Signature  of  "  Grace  Greenwood""" 

II -r  (;.-mn8 

sfriadne 

Dreamt 

The   Last  ^</(- ....!."".!."!""."""'" 

A  l*>rer  to  his  Faithlett  Miftret* ".. 

Hen-eii  ta  Nina 

"Can<t  T/,,,1,  /••„,•.,,;•" .....I.J"""I!!!""*' 

Ini-ifinion  t"  M>ih,r  F.artli 

"  There  wa*  a  A'-wc" "  " 

T,,e  .V,  ,,/;,/0rV  Lore , 


.390 
.391 
.392 
.393 
.393 
.394 
.394 
.395 


A  Dr.aiit. 

Darkened  Hour* '.'.'.'.'.'.'.".'.'.'. 

L,>i-r  and  During 

t    W  nHHf  li.de 

MISS     \NNK    H.   I'HILI.IPS. 

Writes  nn.ler  the  N;,,,,e  of"  Helen  Irvjn»" 


.900 
.9M 
.397 

-:i9S 
.3M 


Lore  a, i,t  Fam:. 
Kina  to  Kieii-.i. . 


CONTENTS. 


15 


MRS.  ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN. 

Labi/hood PACK  401 

Going  to  Sleep 401 

Loft  Behind 401 

Endurance 402 

Singing  in  the  Rain 402 

A  Spring  Love  Song 403 

The  Amber  Rosary 403 

October 403 

AtLast 404 

La*t 404 

Forgotten 404 

In  an  Attic 405 

October  to  May 405 

Erening 405 

Prophecy 405 

"  My  Pearling  " 406 

When  the  Leaves  are  Turning  Broirn 406 

Consolation 406 

A  Dream 407 

Answer  Me 407 

The  Sparrow  at  Sea 408 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep 408 

MRS.  ROLLIN  COOKE,  "ROSE  TERRY." 

Done  For 409 

After  the  Camanches 409 

Doubt 409 

Cain 410 

"  Che  Sara  Sara" 410 

Midnight 410 

At  Last    411 

December  XXXI . .  411 

New  Moon 411 

Indolence 411 

Nemesis 412 

Truths 412 

A  Ch HVs  Wish 41 2 

The  Tu-o  Villages 413 

Blue  Beard's  Closet 413 

The  Iconoclast 413 

Semde 414 

Departing 414 

La,  Coquette 414 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  STODDARD. 

The  Chimney-Swallow'' 8  Idyl 415 

Before  the  Mirror 415 

November .415 

"  Hallo,  my  Fancy ,  whither  wilt  thou  go?" 416 

On  my  Bed  of  a  Winter  Night 416 

The  House  Inj  the  Sea, , 416 

You  Left  Me 416 

The  Poet's  Secret 416 

A  Summer  Night 417 

The  House  of  Youth 417 

The  Shadows  on  the  Water  Reach 417 

Exile 417 

A  Sea-Side  Idyl 418 

Unreturning 419 

The  Colonel's  Shield 419 

Mercedes 419 

The  Bull-Fight 420 

El  Capitano 420 

On  the  Campagna 420 

Christmas  Comes  Again 420 

Last  Days 421 

Memory  is  Immortal 421 

The  Message 422 

MRS.  JULIA C.  R.  DORR. 

Over  the  Wall 423 

•'  Earth  to  Earth  " 423 

Yesterday  and  To- Day 424 

Agnes 424 

Under  the  Palm  Trees 424 

The  La*t  of  Six 425 

Waiting  for  Letters 426 

Coming  Home 426 


MRS.  JULIA  C.  R.  DORR,  (CONTINUED.) 

Hidden  Away  

PAGE  427 

Then  and  Now  

427 

MRS.  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

The  Old  Psalm  Tune  

428 

The  Other  World  

428 

The  Secret  

429 

Think  not  all  is  Over  

429 

The  Crocus  

429 

"  Only  a  Year  "  

429 

Midnight  

430 

Second  Hour  

430 

A  Day  in  the  Pamfili  Doria  

430 

The  Gardens  of  the  Vatican  

431 

MRS.  MARY  E.  BRADLEY. 

Peartsease  . 

432 

Miqnonnette  

432 

Winter-green  

433 

Beside  the  Sea  

433 

A  Rhyme  of  the  Rain  

434 

IntlieNiyht  

434 

Song  

435 

The  Four-leaved  Clover  

436 

Irrewtmlle  

436 

Ashet  of  Roses  

436 

MISS  KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD. 

437 

Under  the  Maple  

437 

The  Soid's  Quest  

438 

Jimmy  

438 

By  the  Apple  Tree  

439 

Marguerite  

439 

Mother  MicJx.ud  

439 

In  the  Set"!                                                     

440 

440 

A  Childish  Fancy  

441 

Sixteen  and  Sixty  

441 

Awakened  

441 

442 

Sawdust  

In  Clover  

442 

MRS.  S.  M.  B.  PIATT. 

The  Fancy  Ball  

^43 

Twelve  Hours  Apart  

443 

To-Day  

443 

Meeting  a  Mirror  

443 

Earth  in  Heaven  

444 

Last  Words  

444 

The  End  of  the  Rainboip  

444 

Two  Blush  Roses  

445 

Of  a  Parting  • 

445 

A  Disenchantment  

445 

Questions  of  the  Hour  

446 

A  Walk  to  my  own  Grave  

446 

On  a  Wedding  Day  

446 

MRS.  LOUI>E  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 

The  Song  of  a  Summer  

447 

To  my  Hea  rt  

447 

The  Spring  is  Late  

447 

A  Woman's  Waiting  

The  Singer  

....44S 

A  Weed  

449 

How  Long  ?  ..-.  

449 

A  Problem  •      • 

449 

May-Flowers  •  

449 

MRS.  CELIA  THAXTER. 

Expectation  

450 

The  Sandpiper  

450 

The  Minute-Guns  

450 

Rock  Weeds  

451 

A.  Sumnvr  Day  

451 

November  

452 

Yellow-Bird  

.   ...453 

MRS.  ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

Per  Tenebras,  Lamina  

453 

16 


CONTENTS. 


MRS.  ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY  (CONTINUKD). 

BtMndtkt  Mink  ...............  .................  PAGK453 

•  ................................................  452 

An,  thrust  .............................................  454 

Released  .............................................  4;->4 

};<  i  uty  for  Ashfs  .....................................  454 

Th,-  Three  Light*  ....................................  454 

Sunlight  nnd  Starlight  ..................................  455 

Jfenrth-Glow  ...........................................  455 

••'  /  ...............    ...............................  455 

Up  in  the  Wild  .......................................  456 

•••'/"/  ...........   ...............................  456 

The  Second  Motherhood  .................................  456 

The  Last  Reality  .......................................  455 

MRS.  HELEN  HUNT. 

Spinning....^  .......................................  457 

The  Prince  is  Dead  ....................................  457 

"  Spoken  "  .............................  .  ..............  457 

Amreetri  Wine  .........................................  453 

Coronation  .............................................  453 

Tryst  ..................................................  458 

My  Strawberry  ............................   ...........  459 

"  Down  to  Sleep"  ......................................  459 

.............................  459 


MRS.  MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 

i'ino  at  Supper  ...................................  460 

A  ndrea's  Mistake    .....................................  460 

Donna  Margherita.  ....................................  461 

Dorothea's  Roses  .......................................  462 

In  an  Eastern  Bazaar  ..................................  4g3 

St.  Gregory's  Supper  .............     ...................  463 

The  Open  Gate  ..........................................  454 

God's  Patience  .........................  464 

MISS  NORA  PERRY. 

In  June  ....................................  _^  465 

That  Waltz  of  Von  Weber's  ............................  465 

Riding  Down  ....................................  "  "  '  '406 

My  Lad  .y  ..............................................  466 

.1  nnthrr  Year  ..........................................  457 

After  the  Ball  ..........................................  457 

MISS  LAURA  C.  REDDEN. 

.Disarmed  ...............................  463 

Brolcen  Off  ............................................  453 

!('«/  ,<  Out  .............................................    4gg 

A  Lore.  Song  of  Sorrento  ................................  459 

An  Empty  Ni*t  .......................................  '4(59 

The  Fiellt  are  Gray  with  Immortelles  ..  .............  470 


Xntretfout. 


.470 


MISS  HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL. 

I'i'i  Dolorosa 471 

My  Knowledge 47! 

Praying  in  Sjiirit 471 

Humble  Service _  _     47! 


MISS  HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL  (CONTINUED). 

My  Friend  .......................................  PAGE  472 

The  Bell  in  the  Tower  ...................................  472 

AW*  Well  .............................................  472 

TheGue*t  .............................................  472 

MISS  EMMA  LAZARUS. 

In  the  Jewish  Synagogue  at  Newport  ...................  473 

On  a  Tuft  of  Grass  ......................................  473 

Drtams  ................................................  474 

Exultation  .............................................  474 

Sonnet  ..................................................  474 

MISS  MARIAN  DOUGLAS. 

My  Winter  Friend  .....................................  475 

Politics  ...............................................  475 

Wailing  .for  the  May  .................................  475 

tfiimney-Top*  ..........................................  476 

The  Yellow  Cloud  .......................................  476 

The  Rope  Dancer  .......................................  476 

Ant  Hills  ...............................................  477 

The  Lost  Flowers  ............   ...........................  477 

One  Saturday  ...........................................  477 

The  Song  of  the  Bee  ....................................  478 

The  Year'  a  Last  Flower  ................................  478 

*  Two  Pictures  .......  ....................................  478 

MRS.  LUCY  HAMILTON  HOOPER. 

Revelry  ...........................   ...................  479 

The  Duel  ................................................  479 

Re-United  .............................................  479 

TheKing'sRide  ......................................  480 

At  the  Ball  MaUlle  .....................................  480 

Touch  Not  ...............................................  480 

MRS.  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 

A  Lovers  Garden 
At  Twilight 
Vanity 


481 
481 


Flower  Songs  .......  ....................................  482 

Peace  .....   ..........................................  483 

Music  in  the  Night  .....................  ...............  483 

Hereafter  ..................  ..........................  433 

Daybreak  ..............................................  483 

Nocturne  ...............................................  484 

Magdalen  .............................................  434 

A  Sigh  ................................................  484 

Alive     ............  .  ..................................    484 

MISS  MARY  N.  PRESCOTT. 

A  Lullahy  ................................  .  .............  435 

Rock.  Little  Nest  .......................................  435 

A  Tear  ..........................  ....................  435 

To-Day  ................................................  435 

Song  .............  .  .....................................  435 

Two  Moods  ..........................................  486 

A  Song  ...............................................  435 

Asleep  ................................  ..................  486 

The  Brook  .............................  ____  435 


ANNE    BRADSTREET. 


(Born  1013-Died  1672). 


IN  the  works  of  Mrs.  ANNE  BRADSTREET, 
wife  of  one  and  daughter  of  another  of  the  ear 
ly  governors  of  Massachusetts,  we  have  illus 
trations  of  a  genius  suitable  to  grace  a  dis 
tant  province  while  the  splendid  creations 
of  Spenser  and  Shakspere  were  delighting 
the  metropolis.  A  comparison  of  the  pro 
ductions  of  this  celebrated  person  with  those 
of  Lady  Juliana  Berners,  Elizabeth  Melvill, 
the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  and  her  other  pred 
ecessors  or  contemporaries,  will  convince  the 
judicious  critic  that  she  was  superior  to  any 
poet  of  her  sex  who  wrote  in  the  English 
language  before  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 

She  was  born  in  1613,  while  her  father, 
Thomas  Dudley —  who  had  been  educated  in 
the  family  of  the  Earl  of  Northampton,  and 
had  served  creditably  with  the  army  in  Flan 
ders —  was  steward  to  the  Earl  of  Lincoln,  in 
which  situation  he  remained  with  a  brief  in 
terruption  from  twelve  to  sixteen  years,  and 
in  which  he  appears  to  have  been  succeeded 
by  Mr.  Simon  Bradstreet,  of  Emanuel  Col 
lege—subsequently  for  a  short  time  steward 
to  the  Countess  of  Warwick  —  who  in  1629 
married  the  future  poetess,  then  about  six 
teen  years  of  age,  and  in  the  following  year 
came  with  the  Dudley  family  and  other  non 
conformists  to  New  England. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Mrs.  Bradstreet 
had  written  anything,  which  has  been  print 
ed,  before  her  arrival  in  America.  Here  was 
completed  her  education,  under  the  care  of  her 
husband,  and  his  friends  among  the  learned 
men  who  then  presided  over  the  society  of 
Cambridge  and  Boston  ;  and  by  her  experi 
ence  and  observation  in  this  country  nearly 
all  her  poems  seem  to  have  been  suggested. 
The  first  collection  of  them  was  printed  at 
Boston,  in  1640,  under  the  title  of  "Several 
Poems,  compiled  with  great  variety  of  Wit 
and  Learning,  full  of  delight ;  wherein  espe 
cially  is  contained  a  compleat  Discourse  and 
Description  of  the  Four  Elements,  Constitu 
tions,  Ages  of  Man,  and  Seasons  of  the  Year, 
together  with  an  exact  Epitome  of  the  Three 
First  Monarchies,  viz.,  the  Assyrian,  Persian, 


and  Grecian ;  and  the  beginning  of  the  Roman 
Commonwealth  to  the  end  of  their  last  King ; 
with  divers  other  Pleasant  and  Serious  Po 
ems  :  By  a  Gentlewoman  of  New  England." 
In  1650  this  volume  was  reprinted  in  Lon 
don,  with  the  additional  title  of  "  The  Tenth 
Muse,  lately  sprung  up  in  America  ;"  and  in 
1678  a  second  American  edition  came  from 
the  press  of  John  Foster,  of  Boston,  "  cor 
rected  by  the  author,  and  enlarged  by  the 
addition  of  several  other  poems  found  among 
her  papers  after  her  death." 

The  writer  of  the  preface  to  the  first  edi 
tion,  who  was  probably  her  brother-in-law, 
John  Woodbridge,  of  Andover,  says  :  "  Had 
I  opportunity  but  to  borrow  some  of  the  au 
thor's  wit,  'tis  possible  I  might  so  trim  this 
curious  work  with  sucn  quaint  expressions 
as  that  the  preface  might  bespeak  thy  fur 
ther  perusal ;  but  I  fear  'twill  be  a  shame  for 
a  man  that  can  speak  so  little,  to  be  seen  in 
the  titlepage  of  this  woman's  book,  lest  by 
comparing  the  one  with  the  other  the  reader 
should  pass  his  sentence  that  it  is  the  gift  of 
the  woman  not  only  to  speak  most  but  to 
speak  best.  I  shall  have  therefore  to  com 
mend  that,  which  with  any  ingenious  reader 
will  too  much  commend  the  a\ithor,  unless 
men  turn  more  peevish  than  women  and 
envy  the  inferior  sex.  I  doubt  not  but  the 
reader  will  quickly  find  more  than  I  can  say, 
and  the  worst  effect  of  his  reading  will  be  un 
belief,  which  will  make  him  question  wheth 
er  it  can  be  a  woman's  work,  and  ask,  'Is 
it  possible  V  If  any  do,  take  this  as  an  an 
swer,  from  him  that  dares  avow  it :  It  is  the 
work  of  a  woman,  honored  and  esteemed 
where  she  lives,  for  her  gracious  demeanor, 
her  eminent  parts,  her  pious  conversation, 
her  courteous  disposition,  her  exact  dili 
gence  in  her  place,  and  discreet  managing 
of  her  family  occasions :  and  more  than  so. 
these  poems  are  the  fruit  but  of  some  few 
hours,  curtailed  from  her  sleep  and  other  re 
freshments.  .  .  .  This  only  I  shall  annex :  1 
fear  the  displeasure  of  no  person  in  publish 
ing  these  poems,  but  the  author,  without 
whose  knowledge  and  contrary  to  %yhoseei 


A.NXE    BRADSTREET. 


pectation  I  have  presun-ed  to  bring  to  pub 
lic  view  what  she  resolved  in  such  a  manner 
should  never  see  the  sun." 

It  is  evident,  from  some  lines  upon  it  by 
Mrs.  Bradsireet,  that  Spenser's  Faery  Queen 
wa>  not  unknown  in  Massachusetts,  but  the 
fashionable  poet  of  that  period  was  Du  Bar 
tas,*  translations  of  whose  works,  in  cum- 
bn .n.-  quartos  and  folios,  were  read  by  every 
person  in  the  country  pretending  to  taste  or 
pie.\  .  ill.  ii-h  they  seem  to  have  evinced  little 
genm-.  and  still  less  religion.  Among  the 
verses  prefixed  to  Mrs.  Bradsireet's  volume 
are  some  by  Nathaniel  Ward,  of  Ipswich, 
the  witty  author  of  The  Simple  Cobbler  of 
Aga  warn,  who,  puzzled  by  a  comparison  of 
his  heroine  with  the  recognised  model  of 
the  age,  declares  that  — 

Mercury  showed  Apollo  Bartas'  book,  • 
Minerva  this,  and  wished  him  well  to  look 
And  tell  uprightly  which  did  which  excel : 
Jle  viewed  and  viewed,  and  vowed  he  could  not  tell. 

But  .Airs.  Bradstreet  herself  was  more  mod 
est,  and,  in  the  prologue  to  r-ne  of  her  longer 

piece:-,  says  — 

But  when  my  wondering  eyes  and  envious  heart 
(I real  Bartas'  sugared  lines  do  but  read  o'er, 

Tool  !    I  do  grudge  the  muses  did  not  part 
"J'wivt  him  and  me  their  overfluent  store. 

A   Bartas  can  do  what  a  Bartas  will — 

But  simple  I,  according  to  my  skill. 

The  "copies  of  verses"  which  are  prefixed 
to  these  poems  are  curious,  not  only  as  indi- 
c.aiing  the  position  of  the  author  and  her  as 
sociations,  but  as  illustrative  of  the  taste  and 
culture  of  the  time  in  the  city  which  still 
claims  to  be  our  literary  capital.  Benjamin 
Wondbridge,  the  first  graduate  of  Harvard 
college,  exclaims  — 

Now  1  believe  Tradition,  which  doth  call 
The  muses,  virtues,  graces,  females  all  ; 
Only  they  are  not  nine,  eleven,  nor  three — 
Our  authoress  proves  them  but  one  unity. 

And  further  on,  to  his  own  sex  — 

In  your  own  arts  confess  yourselves  outdone 

The  moon  doth  totally  eclipse  the  sun  : 
Mot  with  her  sable  mantle  muflling  him, 
But  her  bright  silver  makes  his  -old  look  dim. 

William   de_  Salluste   dn    liartas  the    mor-f    ceiehrated 


F'i-'nch   poet    of  his    a-c.   was    Lorn     n    l.M-l.    and    died  in 
..r>!U>.        He     was    the    friend     and     n 
H'-nri  IV.,  and  wrote  a  canticle  upoi 


His  works   were   nearly   nil.  hy    vin-ji 
into  Kn-lish.  HIM'  one   of  theni.  ••  (in! 


•ii, Hebdornas "etc.,  pas.-ed  through 

lions  in   MX  years.     The  translation  which  was  p'rohahiv 

)••  st  kno-n  in  tins  country  is  that  of  Sylveate :.  published 

in  London,  in  a  thick  folio,  in 


ip.-inirii  in  arms  of 
his  victory  of  Vvri. 
us  hands,  translated 
elnii  Sallu-ti  llartas- 
nore  than  thirty  edi- 

iviiicii  was  probably 
Sylveate :.  published 


The  learned  and  pious  John  Norton,  who 
declared  this  "peerless  gentlewoman"  to  be 
"  the  mirror  of  her  age  and  glory  of  her  sex," 
said  in  a  funeral  ode  that  could  Virgil  hear 
her  works  he  would  condemn  his  own  to  the 
fire,  and  that  — 

Praise  her  who  list,  yet  he  shall  be  a  debtor, 
For  art  ne'er  feigned,  nor  nature  formed,  a  better'. 
Her  virtues  were  so  great,  that  they  do  raise 
A  work  to  trouble  Fame,  astonish  Praise ; 
When,  as  her  name  doth  but  salute  the  ear, 
Men  think  that  they  Perfection's  abstract  hear. 
Her  breast  was  a  brave  palace,  a  broad  street, 
Where  all  heroic,  ample  thoughts  did  meet; 
Where  Nature  such  a  tenement  had  ta'en 
That  other  souls  to  hers  dwelt  in  a  lane. 
Beneath  her  feet  pale  Envy  bites  the  chain, 
And  poisoned  Malice  whets  her  sting  in  vain. 
Let  every  laurel,  every  myrtle  bough, 
Be  stripped  for  leaves  t' adorn  and  load  her  brow 
Victorious  wreaths,  which,  for  they  never  fade, 
Wise  elder  times  for  kings  and  poets  made. 
J.et  not  her  happy  memory  e'er  lack 
Its  worth  in  Fame's  eternal  almanac, 
Which  none  shall  read  but  straight  their  loss  deplore 
And  blame  their  fates  they  were  not  born  before. 
Do  not  old  men  rejoice  their  dates  did  last, 
And  infants  too  that  theirs  did  make  such  haste, 
In  such  a  welcome  time  to  bring  them  forth 
That  they  might  be  a  witness  to  her  worth  1 

Dr.  Cotton  Mather  in  the  Magnalia  alludes 
to  her  works  as  a  "monument  to  her  mem 
ory  beyond  the  stateliest  marble  ;"  and  John 
Rogers,  one  of  the  presidents  of  Harvard  col 
lege,  addressed  to  her  one  of  the  finest  poems 
written  in  this  country  before  the  Revolution, 
in  which  he  says: — 

Your  only  hand  those  poesies  did  compose  ;  [flow ; 

Your  head,  the  source  whence  all  those  springs  did 
Your  voice,  whence  change's  sweetest  notes  arose  ; 
^  Your  feet,  that  kept  the  dance  alone,  I  trow ; 
Then  veil  your  bonnets,  poetasters,  all  : 
Strike  lower  amain,  and  at  these  humbly  fall, 
And  deem  yourselves  advanced  to  be  her  pedestal 
Should  all  with  lowly  congees  laurels  bring, 

Waste  Flora's  magazine  to  find  a  wreath, 
Or  Pineus'  banks,  'twere  too  mean  offering. 

Your  muse  a  fairer  garland  doth  bequeath 
To  guard  your  fairer  front;  here  'tis  your  name 

Shall  stand  im marbled  ;  this — your  little  frame 

Shall  great  Colossus  be  to  your  eternal  fame. 

These  praises  run  into  hyperbole,  and  prove, 
perhaps,  that  their  authors  were  more  gal 
hint  than  critical ;  but  we  perceive  from  Mrs. 
Bradstreet's  poems  that  they  are  not  desti 
tute  of  imagination,  and  that  she  was  thor 
oughly  instructed  in  the  best  learning  of  her 
acre  :  and  from  the  general  and  profound  re 
gret  manifested  on  the  occasion  of  her  death, 


ANNE    BRADSTREET. 


we  may  believe  she  was  personally  deserv 
ing  of  unusual  respect. 

Her  Husband  was  frequently  absent  from 
his  home,  upon  official  duties,  and  several 
poems  which  she  addressed  to  him  in  these 
periods  have  the  fervor  and  simplicity  of  the 
sincerest  passion.     In  one  of  them  she  says : 
If  ever  two  were  one,  then  surely  we  ; 
If  ever  man  were  loved  by  wife,  then  thee ; 
If  ever  wife  were  happy  in  a  man, 
Compare  with  me,  ye  women,  if  ye  can. 

In  another,  apostrophizing  the  sun : 
Phoebus,  make  haste — the  day 's  too  long — begone ! 
The  silent  night's  the  fittest  time  for  moan. 
But  stay,  this  once — unto  my  suit  give  ear — 
And  tell  my  griefs  in  either  hemisphere: 
If  in  thy  swift  career  thou  canst  ma-ke  stay, 
I  crave  this  boon,  this  errand,  by  the  way : 
Commend  me  to  the  man,  more  loved  than  life  : 
Show  him  the  sorrows  of  his  widowed  wife ; 
And  if  he  love,  how  can  he  there  abide  ] 
My  interest 's  more  than  all  the  world  beside.  .  .  . 
Tell  him  the  countless  steps  that  thou  dost  trace 
That  once  a  day  thy  spouse  thou  mayst  embrace, 
And  when  thou  canst  not  meet  by  loving  mouth, 
Thy  rays  afar  salute  her  from  the  south ; 
But  for  one  month,  I  see  no  day,  poor  soul ! 
Like  those  far  situate  beneath  the  pole, 
Which  day  by  day  long  wait  for  thy  arise— 

0  how  they  joy  when  thou  dost  light  the  skies ! 
Tell  him  I  would  say  more,  but  can  not  well ; 
Oppress  Jd  minds  abruptest  tales  do  tell. 

Now  part  with  double  speed,  mark  what  I  say, 
By  all  our  loves  conjure  him  not  to  stay  ! 

In  the  prospect  of  death : 
How  soon,  my  dear,  death  may  my  steps  attend, 
How  soon  't  may  be  thy  lot  to  lose  thy  friend, 
We  both  are  ignorant ;  yet  love  bids  me 
These  farewell  lines  to  recommend  to  thee, 
That  when  that  knot's  untied  that  made  us  one, 

1  may  seem  thine,  who  in  effect  am  none. 
And  if  I  see  not  half  my  days  that's  due, 
What  Nature  would,  God  grant  to  yours  and  you  ; 
The  many  faults  that  well  you  know  I  have, 

Let  be  interred  in  my  oblivious  grave ; 

If  any  worth  or  virtue  is  in  me, 

Let  that  live  freshly  in  my  memory ; 

And  when  thou  feel'st  no  grief,  as  I  no  harms, 

Yet  love  thy  dead,  who  long  lay  in  thine  arms ; 

And  when  thy  loss  shall  be  repaid,  with  gains, 

Look  to  my  little  babes,  my  dear  remains, 


And  if  thou  lovest  thyself  or  lovest  me, 
These  oh  protect  from  stepdame's  injury ! 
And  if  chance  to  thine  eyes  doth  bring  this  verse, 
With  some  sad  sighs  honor  my  absent  hearse, 
And  kiss  this  paper,  for  thy  love's  dear  sake. 
Who  with  salt  tears  this  last  farewell  doth  take. 

Some  of  her  elegies  are  marked  by  similar 
beauties  — as  this,  upon  a  grandchild  who 
died  in  1665: — 
Farewell,  dear  child,  my  heart's  too  much  content, 

Farewell,  sweet  babe,  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye, 
Farewell,  fair  flower,  that  for  a  space  was  lent, 

Then  ta'en  away  into  eternity. 
Blest  babe,  why  should  I  once  bewail  thy  fate, 
Or  sigh,  the  days  so  soon  were  terminate, 
Sith  thou  art  settled  in  an  everlasting  state  1 

By  nature,  trees  do  rot  when  they  are  grown, 

And  plums  and  apples  thoroughly  ripe  do  fall, 
And  corn  and  grass  are  in  their  season  mown, 

And  time  brings  down  what  is  both  strong  and  tall. 
But  plants  new  set,  to  be  eradicate, 
And  buds  new  blown,  to  have  so  short  a  date, 
Is  by  His  hand  alone,  that  nature  guides,  and  fate. 

And  some  verges  upon  the  death  of  a  daugh 
ter-in-law,  in  1669,  from  which  the  follow 
ing  is  an  extract : — 
And  live  I  still,  to  see  relations  gone, 
And  yet  survive,  to  sound  this  wailing  tone  t 
Ah,  wo  is  me,  to  write  thy  funeral  song 
Who  might  in  reason  yet  have  lived  so  long ! 
I  saw  the  branches  lopped,  the  tree  now  fall ; 
I  stood  so  nigh,  it  crushed  me  down  withal ; 
My  bruised  heart  lies  sobbing  at  the  root, 
That  thou,  dear  son,  hast  lost  both  tree  and  fruit; 
Thou,  then  on  seas,  sailing  on  foreign  coast, 
Wast  ignorant  what  riches  thou  hadst  lost, 
But  oh,  too  soon  those  heavy  tidings  fly, 
To  strike  thee  with  amazing  misery  ! 
Mrs.  Brads'reet  died  on  the  16ih  of  Septem 
ber,  1672,  in  the  sixtieth  year  of  her  age. 
Her  husband  afterward  married  a  sister  of 
Sir  George  Dunning,  and  lived  to  be  called 
the  Nestor  of  New  England,  dying  at  Salem 
in  1697,  when  he  was  nearly  a  century  old. 
Many    of  Mrs.  Bradstreet's   descendants 
have  been  conspicuous  for  their  abilities. 
Among  them  is  the  noble  poet  Dana,  Avho 
traces  his  lineage  through  one  of  the  signers 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 


FROM  THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THE  FOUR 
ELEMENTS. 

I  AM  obnoxious  to  each  carping  tongue 
That  says  my  hand  a  needle  better  fits ; 

A  poet's  pen  all  scorn  I  should  thus  wrong, 
For  such  despite  they  cast  on  female  wits ; 


If  what  I  do  prove  well,  it  won't  advance- - 
They'll  say,  It's  stolen,  or  else  it  was  by  chance 

But  sure,  the  antique  Greeks  were  far  more  mild , 
Else  of  our  sex  why  feigned  they  those  Nine, 

And  Poesy  made  Calliop  >'s  own  child  ' 
So,  'mongst  the  rest,  they  placed  the  arts  divine. 


20 


ANXE    BRAUSTREET. 


But  tliis  weak  knot  they  will  full  soon  untie — 
The  (Jp'eks  diil  naught  but  play  the  fool  and  lie. 

Let  (J  reeks  l>e  Greeks,  and  women  what  they  are  ; 

Men  have  precedency,  and  still  excel ; 
't  is  but  vain  unjustly  to  wage  war, 

Men  can  do  best,  and  women  know  it  well; 
Pre-eminence  in  each  and  all  is  yours, 
Vet  tyrant  some  small  acknowledgment  of  ours. 

And  oh,  ye  high-flown  quills  that  soar  the  skit's, 
And  ever  with  your  prey  .still  catch  your  praise, 

If  e'er  you  deign  these  lowly  lines  your  eyes, 
(ii\c  tiiMiic  or  parsley  wreath:  I  ask  no  bays; 

This  mean  and  unrefined  ore  of  mine 

Will  make  your  glistering  gold  but  more  to  shine. 


EXTRACT  FROM  CONTKMPL ATIONS. 

TIxitr.it  the  cooling  shadow  of  a  stately  elm, 

Close  sat  I  by  a  goodly  river's  side, 
Where  gliding  streams  the  rocks  did  overwhelm ; 

A  lonely  place,  with  pleasures  dignified. 
I,  once  that  loved  the  shady  woods  so  well, 
.Vow  thought  the  rivers  did  the  trees  excel,    [dwell. 
And  if  the  sun  would  ever  shine,  there  would  I 

While  on  the  stealing  stream  I  fixed  mine  eye, 
Which  to  the  longed-for  ocean  held  its  course, 

I  marked  nor  crooks  nor  rubs  that  there  did  lie, 
Could  hinder  aught,  but  still  augment  its  force. 

"  O  happy  flood,"  quoth  I,  « that  holdst  thy  race 

Till  thou  arrive  at  thy  beloved  place, 

Nor  is  it  rocks  or  shoals  that  can  obstruct  thy  pace. 

"Nor  is't  enough  that  thou  alone  may'st  slide, 
But  hundred  brooks  in  thy  clear  waves  do  meet: 

Si;  hand  in  hand  along  with  thee  they  glide 
To  Thetis'  house,  where  all  embrace  and  greet. 

Thou  emblem  true  of  what  I  count  the  best 

()  could  I  leave  my  rivulets  to  rest! 

So  may  we  press  to  that  vast  mansion  ever  blest. 

"  Ye  fish  which  in  this  liquid  region  'bide. 

That  for  each  season  have  your  habitation, 
Now  salt,  now  fresh,  when   you  think  best  to  glide, 

To  unknown  coasts  to  give  a  visitation, 
In  lakes  and  ponds  you  leave  your  numerous  fry  : 
So  .Nature  taught,  and  yet  you  know  not  why— 
You  wat'ry  folk  that  know  not  your  felicity  !'' 

Look  how  the  wantons  frisk  to  taste  the  air, 

Then  to  the  colder  bottom  straight  they  dive, 
Eft  soon  to  .Veptunc's  glassy  h;dl  repair" 
To  see  what  trade  the  threat  ones  there  do  drive, 
Who  t'oni'jv  o'er  the  spacious  sea-irreen  field. 
And  take  their  trembling  prey  before  it  yield, 
Whose  armor  is   their   scales,  their   spreading  fins 
their  shield. 

While  musinnr  thus  with  contemplation  fed. 
And  thousand  fancies  bu/./.in^  in  mv  brain, 

rl'h«'  sweet  toiiLrued  Philomel  perch :-d  o'er  my  head, 
And  chanted  forth  a  most  melodious  strain, 


Which  rapt  me  so  with  wonder  and  delight, 
I  judged  my  hearing  better  than  my  sight, 
And  wished  me  wings  with  her  a  while  to  lake 
my  flight. 

"  0  merry  bird,"  said  I,  "  that  fears  no  snares ; 

That  neither  toils  nor  hoards  up  in  thy  barn ; 
Feels  no  sad  thoughts,  nor  'cruciating  cares 

To  gain  more  good,  or  shun  what  might  thee  harm : 
Thy  clothes  ne'er  wear,  thy  meat  is  everywhere, 
Thy  bed  a  bough,  thy  drink  the  water  clear,  [fear 
Reminds  not  what  is  past,  nor  what's  to  come  dost 

"  The  dawning  morn  with  songs  thou  dost  prevent* 

Sets  hundred  notes  unto  thy  feathered  crew ; 
So  each  one  tunes  his  pretty  instrument, 
And  warbling  out  the  old,  begins  anew, 
And  thus  they  pass  their  youth  in  summer  season, 
Then  follow  thee  into  a  better  region, 
Where  winter's  never  felt  by  that  sweet  airy  legion." 

Man's  at  the  best  a  creature  frail  and  vain, 

In  knowledge  ignorant,  in  strength  but  weak ; 
Subject  to  sorrows,  losses,  sickness,  pain, 

Each  storm  his  state,  his  mind,  his  body  break : 
From  some  of  these  he  never  finds  cessation, 
But  day  or  night,  within,  without,  vexation, 
Troubles  from   foes,  from   friends,  from   dearest, 
near'st  relations. 

And  yet  this  sinful  creature,  frail  and  vain, 

This  lump  of  wretchedness,  of  sin  and  sorrow, 
This  weather-beaten  vessel  racked  with  pain, 
Joys  not  in  hope  of  an  eternal  morrow ; 
Nor  all  his  losses,  crosses,  and  vexation, 
In  weight,  in  frequency,  and  long  duration, 
Can  make  him  deeply  groan  for  that  divine  trans 
lation. 

The  mariner  that  on  smooth  waves  doth  glide, 

Sin  ITS  merrily,  and  steers  his  bark  with  ease, 
As  if  he  had  command  of  wind  and  tide, 

And  were  become  great  master  of  the  seas; 
But  suddenly  a  storm  spoils  all  the  sport, 
And  makes  him  long  for  a  more  quiet  port, 
Which  'gainst  all  adverse  winds  may  serve  for  fort. 

So  he  that  saileth  in  this  world  of  pleasure, 
^  Feeding  on  sweets,  that  never  bit  of  the  sour, 

That's  full  of  friends,  of  honor,  and  of  treasure 

Fond  fool !  he  takes  this  earth  e'en  for  heaven's 

bower. 

But  sad  alHiction  comes,  and  makes  him  see 
Here's  neither  honor,  wealth,  nor  safety: 
Only  above  is  found  all  with  security. 

O  Time,  the  fatal  wrack  of  mortal  things, 

That  draws  Oblivion's  curtains  over  kings 

TJieir  sumptuous  monuments  men  know  them  not, 
Their   names  without  a  record  are  forgot,  [dust— 
Their  parts,  their  ports,  their  pomps,  all  laid  i' the 
Nor  wit,  nor -,ro!d,  nor  l)iiildinirs, 'scape  Time's  rust 
But  be  whose  name  is  graved  in  the  white  stone, 
Shall  last  and  shine  when  all. of  these  are  gone! 


That  is,  anticipate. 


MERCY    WARREN. 


(Born  1728 -Died  1815). 


THIS  woman,  once  so  well  known  as  a 
poet,  and  whose  historical  writings  are  still 
consulted  as  among  the  most  valuable  au 
thorities  relating  to  our  revolutionary  age, 
was  a  sister  of  the  celebrated  James  Otis  and 
the  wife  of  James  Warren,  for  many  years 
honorably  conspicuous  in  public  affairs.  She 
was  born  in  Barnstable,  of  a  family  which 
had  been  nearly  a  century  in  the  Plymouth 
colony,  on  the  25th  of  September,  1728.  Her 
youth  was  passed  in  retirement,  but  in  hab 
its  and  duties  suitable  for  the  eldest  daugh 
ter  of  a  gentleman  of  the  first  rank  in  the  co 
lonial  society.  Her  education  was  directed 
first  by  the  minister  of  the  parish,  and  after 
ward  by  her  brother  James,  who  graduated 
at  Harvard  in  1743,  and  was  a  thoroughly 
accomplished  scholar.  When  about  twenty- 
six  years  of  age  she  was  married  to  Mr.  War 
ren,"  then  a  merchant  at  Plymouth,  and  it  was 
while  residing  with  him  and  her  children, 
in  after  years,  near  that  town,  at  a  place  to 
which  she  gave  the  name  of  Clifford,  that 
she  wrote  the  greater  part  of  her  dramatic 
and  miscellaneous  poems. 

The  popular  excitement  which  preceded 
the  separation  from  England,  and  the  rela 
tions  sustained  by  her  brother  and  her  hus 
band  to  the  great  parties  by  which  the  coun 
try  was  divided,  had  a  quick  and  powerful 
influence  upon  her  ardent  and  sympathetic 
spirit,  and  perhaps  nothing  would  give  us  a 
more  just  impression  of  the  feelings  of  the 
time  than  her  eloquent  and  terse  correspon 
dence  with  the  Adamses,  with  Jefferson, 
Dickinson,  Gerry,  Knox,  and  other  leading 
characters,  upon  the  aspects  and  prospects 
of  affairs.  Her  intercourse  with  the  remark 
able  women  who  seconded  so  earnestly  the 
movements  of  the  fathers  of  the  republic, 
was  more  intimate,  and  probably  would  ad 
mit  us  yet  further  into  the  secrets  and  pas 
sions  of  the  youthful  heart  of  the  nation. 
Her  intelligence  and  patriotism  are  recog 
nised  by  Mrs.  Adams,  who,  in  a  letter  to 
her  written  in  1773,  remarks:  "You  are  so 
sincere  a  lover  of  your  country,  and  so  hearty 
a  mourner  in  all  her  misfo:tu:ies,  that  it  will 


greatly  aggravate  your  anxiety  to  hear  how 
much  she  is  now  oppressed  and  insulted. 
To  you,  who  have  so  thoroughly  looked 
through  the  deeds  of  men,  and  developed  the 
dark  designs  of  a  *  Rapatio'  soul,  no  action, 
however  base  or  sordid,  no  measure,  how 
ever  cruel  and  villanous,  will  be  a  matter 
of  surprise."  By  "  Rapatio"  is  meant  Gov 
ernor  Hutchinson,  who  is  thus  designated  in 
The  Group,  a  satirical  drama,  in  two  acts, 
which  Mrs.  Warren  had  published,  and  to 
which  much  influence  is  ascribed  in  contem 
porary  letters.  In  the  first  scene  of  the  sec 
ond  act,  in  describing  the  royal  governor, 
she  says: 

But  mark  the  traitor  !  his  high  crime  glossed  o'er 
Conceals  the  tender  feelings  of  the  man, 
The  social  ties  that  bind  the  human  heart : 
He  strikes  a  bargain  with  his  country's  foes, 
And  joins  to  wrap  America  in  flames, 
Yet,  with  feigned  pity  and  satanic  grin, 
As  if  more  deep  to  fix  the  keen  insult, 
Or  make  his  life  a  farce  still  more  complete, 
He  sends  a  groan  across  the  broad  Atlantic, 
And  with  a  phiz  of  crococlilean  stamp, 
Can  weep  and  writhe,  still  hoping  to  deceive. 
He  cries,  The  gathering  clouds  hang  thick  about  her, 
But  laughs  within — then  sobs,  Alas,  my  country ! 

And  in  another  place,  alluding  to  the  de 
struction  of  the  tea  in  Boston  harbor : 

India's  poisonous  weed, 
Long  since  a  sacrifice  to  Thetis,  made 
A  rich"  resale.     Now  all  the  watery  dames 
May  snuff  souchong,  and  sip,  in  flowing  bowls, 
The  higher-flavored  choice  hysonian  stream. 
And  leave  their  nectar  to  old  Homer's  gods. 

There  is  certainly  very  little  poetry  in  these 
extracts,  or  in  the  piece  from  which  they  are 
taken  ;  but  as  reflexions  of  the  common  feel 
ing  her  satires  received  the  best  applause  of 
the  day. 

Mrs.  Warren's  residence  was  changed  du 
ring  the  Revolution  to  Milton,  Watertown, 
and  other  places ;  Washington,  Lee,  Gates, 
and  D'Estaing,  were  among  her  occasional 
guests  ;  and  many  of  the  leading  statesmen 
of  New  England  by  her  fireside  formed  plans 
of  the  execution  of  which  she  subsequently 
became  the  historian.  Her  tragedies  were 
written  for  amusement,  in  the  solitary  hours 


MERCY    WARREN. 


in  which  her  friends  wen-  sihnuid,  and  the) 
:ire  :is  deeply  imbued  wilh  tin-  general  spiri 
as  if  their  characters  were  acting  in  thedaili 
i-xpi-rieiice  of  the  country.  They  have  Hull 
drainaiie  or  poetic  merit,  but  m-my  passages 

are  smoothly  and  some  vigorously  written 

as  the  fallowing,  from  The  Sack  of  Rome: 

S  f  S  P I  C  I O  N . 

I  tli ink  some  latent  mischief  lies  concealed 
ISeneath  the  vi/ard  of  a  fair  pretence; 
My  In-art  ill  brooked  the  errand  of  the  day, 
Yet  I  obeyed — though  a  strange  horror  seized 
My  Bloomy  mind,  and  shook  my  frame 
As  if  the  moment  murdered  all  my  joys, 
n  KM  on  SK. 

The  bird  of  death  that  nightly  pecks  the  roof, 
Or  shrieks  beside  the  caverns  of  the  dead ; 
Or  paler  spectres  that  infest  the  tombs 
Of  guilt  and  darkness,  horror  or  despair, 
Are  far  more  welcome  to  a  wretch  like  me 
Than  yon  bight  rays  that  deck  the  opening  morn. 

FORTUNE. 

The  wheel  of  fortune,  rapid  in  its  flight, 
La-*  not  for  man,  when  on  its  swift  routine; 
Nor  does  the  goddess  ponder  unresolved: 
She  wafts  at  once  and  on  her  lofty  car 
Lifts  up  her  puppet— mounts  him  to  the  skies, 
Or  from  the  pinnacle  hurls  headlong  down 
The  steep  abyss  of  disappointed  hope. 

AUDKLIA. 

She  was,  for  innocence  and  truth, 
For  elegance,  true  dignity,  and  grace, 
The  fairest  sample  of  that  ancient  worth 
Th'  illustrious  matrons  boasted  to  the  world 
When  Kome  was  famed  for  every  glorious  deed. 

m.CLIXK    OF    PUBLIC    VIUTUK. 

That  dignity  the  gods  themselves  inspired, 
When  Home,  inflamed  with  patriotic  zeal, 
Louir  taught  the  world  to  tremble  and  admire, 
Lies  (hint  and  languid  in  the  wane  of  fame, 
And  must  expire  in  Luxury's  lewd  lap 
It    not  supported  by  some  vigorous  arm. 
Or  these,  from  The  Ladies  of  Castile: 

CITIl    WAII. 

'M.mirst.  all  the  ills  that  hover  o'er  mankind, 
Unfeigned,  or  fabled  in  the  poet's  pajre. 
The  blackest  scrawl  the  sister  furies  hold, 
For  red-e\ed   \Vralh  or  .Malice  to  (ill  up, 
•Is  incomplete  to  sum  up  human  wo, 
Till  Civil  Discord,  still  a  darker  fiend. 
Stalks  forth  unmasked  from  his  infernal  den, 
With  mad  Alecto'«  torch  in  his  right  hand.  ' 
TIIK    ecu  HAM:   or   VIIITIK. 

^  A  soul,  inspired  by  freedom's  Denial  warmth, 
hxpands,  grows  firm,  and  by  resistance,  strong; 
The  most  successful  prince  that  offers  life, 
•\nd  1'iils  me  live  upon  ignoble  terms, 
Shall  learn  from  me  that  virtue  seldom  fears. 
Death  kindly  opes  a  tnmisand  friendly  gates, 

tad  Freedom  waits  to  guard  her  votaries  through 


Appended  to  her  tragedies  are  several 
miscellaneous  poems,  generally  in  a  flowing 
verse,  but  frequently  marked  by  bad  taste, 
and  rarely  evincing  any  real  poetical  power 
or  feeling.  The  following  lines  are  from  the 
beginning  of  an  epistle  to  a  young  gentleman 
educated  in  Europe : — 

SUPKHSTIT1OX, 

When  ancient  Britons  piped  the  rustic  lays, 
And  tuned  to  Woden  notes  of  vocal  praise, 
The  dismal  dirges  caught  the  listening  throng 
And  ruder  gestures  joined  the  antique  song. 
Then  the  gray  druid's  grave,  majestic  air, 
The  frantic  priestess,  with  dishevelled  hair 
And  flaming  torch,  spoke  Superstition's  reign : 
While  elfin  damsels  dancing  o'er  the  plain, 
Allured  the  vulgar  by  the  mystic  scene, 
To  keep  long  vigils  on  the  sacred  green. 

In  A  Political  Revery,  written  before  the 
commencement  of  the  war,  she  gives  a  view 
of  the  future  glory  of  America,  and  the  pun 
ishment  of  her  oppressors.  After  a  sketch 
of  the  first  history  of  the  country,  she  says  : 

Here  a  bright  form,  with  soft  majestic  grace, 
Beckoned  me  on  through  vast  unmeasured  space 
Beside  the  margin  of  the  vast  profound, 
Wild  echoes  played  and  cataracts  did  bound ; 
Beyond  the  heights  of  nature's  wide  expanse, 
\V  here  moved  superb  the  planetary  dance. 
Light  burst  on  light,  and  suns  o'er  suns  displayed 
The  system  perfect  Nature's  God  had  laid. 

And  here  the  fate  of  nations  is  revealed  to 
her.  In  The  Squabble  of  the  Sea-Nymphs 
is  celebrated  the  destruction  of  tea  in  1774 
The  following  are  the  concluding  lines: 

The  virtuous  daughters  of  the  neighb'ring  mead 
In  graceful  smiles  approved  the  glorious  deed 
(And  though  the  syrens  left  their  coral  beds, 
Just  o'er  the  surface  lifted  up  their  heads, 
And  sung  soft  paeans  to  the  brave  and  fair, 
Till  almost  caught  in  the  delusive  snare 
To  sink  securely  in  a  golden  dream, 
And  taste  the  sweet,  inebriating  stream); 
J'hey  saw  delighted  from  the  inland  rocks, 
>  er  the  broad  deep  poured  out  Pandora's  box  • 
1  hey  jomed,  and  fair  Salacia's  triumph  sun--- 
VV  ild  echo  o'er  the  bounding  ocean  run"  •    ° 
Hie  sea-nymphs  heard,  and  all  the  sportive  tram 
n  shaggy  tressefl  danced  around  the  main 
'rom  southern  lakes  down  to  the  northern  rills 
And  spread  confusion  round  N hius. 

Tin- 1  incs  to  the  Hon.  John  Winthrop,  who 
on  the  determination  in  1774  to  suspend  all 
trade  with  England  except  for  the  real  "ne- 

cessaries  of  life,"  requested  a  list  of  articles 

|l  ladies  might  comprise  under  that  head 

are  in  the  author's  happiest  vein  of  satire  •— 


MERCY    WARREN. 


THIXGS    NECESSARY    TO    THE    LIFE    OF   A   WOXAX. 

An  inventory  clear 
Of  all  she  needs,  Lamira  offers  here ; 
Nor  does  she  fear  a  rigid  Cato's  frown, 
When  she  lays  by  the  rich  embroidered  gown, 
And  modestly  compounds  for  just  enough — • 
Perhaps  some  dozens  of  mere  flighty  stuff: 
With  lawns  and  lustrings,  blond,  and  mecklin  lace.3, 
Fringes  and  jewels,  fans  and  tweezer-cases  ; 
Gay  cloaks  and  hats,  of  every  shape  and  size, 
Scarfs,  cardinals,  and  ribands,  of  all  dyes  ; 
With  ruffles  stamped,  and  aprons  of  tambour, 
Tippets  and  handkerchiefs  at  least  threescore  ; 
With  finest  muslins  that  fair  India  boasts, 
And  the  choice  herbage  from  Chinesan  coasts. 
Add  feathers,  furs,  rich  satins,  and  ducapes, 
And  head-dresses  in  pyramidial  shapes ; 
Sideboards  of  plate,  and  porcelain  profuse, 
With  fifty  dittoes  that  the  ladies  use ; 
If  my  poor,  treach'rous  memory  has  missed, 

Ingenious  T 1  shall  complete  the  list. 

So  weak  Lamira,  and  her  wants  so  few, 
Who  can  refuse  1 — they  're  but  the  sex's  due. 
Yet  Clara  quits  the  more  dressed  negligee, 
And  substitutes  the  careless  Polanee, 
Until  some  fair  one  from  Britannia's  court 
Some  jaunty  dress  or  newer  taste  import ; 
This  sweet  temptation  could  not  be  withstood, 
Though  for  the  purchase's  paid  her  father's  blood  ; 
Though  earthquakes  rattle,  or  volcanoes  roar, 
Indulge  this  trifle — and  she  asks  no  more : 
Can  the  stern  patriot  Clara's  suit  deny  1 
'Tis  Beauty  asks,  and  Reason  must  comply. 

John  Adams  was  perhaps  a  better  oiator 
than  critic.  He  writes  to  Mrs.  Warren,  up 
on  the  publication  of  her  poems  :  "  However 
foolishly  some  European  writers  may  have 
sported  with  American  reputation  for  genius, 
literature,  and  science,  I  know  not  where 
they  will  find  a  female  poet  of  their  own  to 
prefer  to  the  ingenious  author  of  these  com 
positions." 

In  the  dedication  of  her  poems  to  Wash 
ington,  she  says :  "  Feeling  much  for  the 
distresses  of  America  in  the  dark  days  of  her 
affliction,  a  faithful  record  has  been  kept  of 
the  most  material  transactions,  through  a 
period  that  has  engaged  the  attention  both 
of  the  philosopher  and  the  politician  ;  and, 
if  life  is  spared,  a  just  trait  of  the  most  dis 
tinguished  characters,  either  for  valor,  vir- 
*ue,  or  patriotism,  for  perfidy,  intrigue,  in 


consistency,  or  ingratitude,  shall  be  faithful 
ly  transmitted  to  posterity."  The  work  thus 
announced  was  published  in  three  octavo  vol 
umes  in  1805,  under  the  title  of  "  The  His 
tory  of  the  Rise,  Progress,  and  Termination 
of  the  American  Revolution,  interspersed 
with  Biographical,  Political,  and  Moral  Ob 
servations."  It  will  always  be  consulted  as 
one  of  the  most  interesting  original  authori 
ties  upon  fhe  revolution.  It  is  written  with 
care,  an;l  in  a  spirit  of  independence  which 
is  illustrated  by  her  notice  of  the  character 
of  her  friend  Mr.  Adarns,  which  was  so  un 
favorable  as  to  cause  a  temporary  interrup 
tion  of  the  relations  between  the  two  fami 
lies  ;  but  Mrs.  Adams  in  this  case,  as  in  that 
of  her  husband's  quairel  with  Mr.  Jefferson, 
finally  brought  about  a  reconciliation,  which 
was  sealed  with  a  ring  which  she  sent  to  the 
historian,  containing  her  own  and  her  hus 
band's  hair. 

Mrs.  Warren  continued  to  the  close  of  her 
life  to  feel  a  lively  interest  in  affairs,  and  she 
was  intelligent  and  honest  enough  to  be  al 
ways  a  partisan.  Though  sometimes  wrong, 
as  she  clearly  was  in  her  active  opposition 
to  the  federal  constitution,  it  was  delightful 
to  see  even  in  a  woman  a  contempt  for  that 
neutrality  in  regard  to  public  measures  which 
under  a  democratic  government  is  invariably 
the  sign  of  a  feeble  understanding  or  of  time 
serving  wickedness.  The  duke  de  Roche- 
foucault,  in  his  entertaining  Travels  in  the 
United  States,  speaks  of  her  extensive  and 
varied  reading,  and  declares  that  at  seventy 
she  had  "lost  neither  the  activity  of  her 
mind  nor  the  graces  of  her  person."  In  her 
old  age  she  was  blind,  but  she  bore  the  mis 
fortune  with  cheerfulness,  and  continued  her 
intercourse  with  society.  She  died  in  her 
eighty-seventh  year,  on  the  19th  of  October, 
1814. 

There  is  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Warren,  by 
Copley,  in  the  possession  of  her  family,  and 
an  excellent  life  of  her  is  contained  in  Mrs 
Ellens  recently  published  "Women  of  the 
Revolution." 


ELIZABETH    GRAEME    FERGUSON. 


(Born  1739-Died  1801). 


THE  most  polite  and  elegant  society  m  this 
country  before  the  Revolution  was  probably 
that  of  Philadelphia,  with  its  connexions  in 
the  southeastern  part  of  the  colony,  and  in 
Delaware  and  New  Jersey.  There  were  "  sol 
id  men"  in  Boston,  there  was  much  real  re 
spectability  in  New  York,  and  good  families 
were  scattered  through  New  England  and 
along  the  Old  Dominion  and  the  Carolinas  : 
but  in  Philadelphia  the  distinction  of  classes 
was  more  marked,  and  the  coteries  of  fash 
ion  larger  and  more  exclusive,  than  else 
where  in  America.     Of  the  first  rank  here 
were  the  Grames,  of  Grame  Park,  who  by 
blood,  fortune,  abilities,  and  character,  were 
alike  entitled  to  consideration  among  the  pro 
vincial  gentry.     Dr.  Thomas  Grame  was  a 
native  of  Scotland.     He  was  a  physician  of 
large  acquirements,  and  the  respectability  of 
his  origin,  his  popular  manners,  and  success 
in  the  practice  of  his  profession,  made  him 
an  eligible  match  for  the  daughter  of  Sir 
William  Keith;  and  his  alliance  with  the 
governor  led  to  his  appointment  to  the  col- 
lectorship  of  the  customs,  which  he  held  for 
many  years. 

ELIZABETH  GRJEME,  the  youngest  of  the 
four  children  of  Thomas  Grame  and  Anne 
Keith,  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1739. 
At  an  early  age  she  evinced  uncommon  abil 
ities,  and  the  chief  care  of  her  mother  was 
to  educate  her  mind  and  heart  so  that  she 
should  illustrate  by  her  intelligence  and  vir 
tue  th.-  highest  grade  of  female  character. 
Much  of  her  youth  was  passed  at  Grceme 
Park,  a  beautiful  country  residence,  twenty 
miles  from  the  city,  where  she  was  frequent 
ly  visited  by  her  friends,  and  where  her  nat 
urally  feeble  constitution  was  so  improved, 
that  u-hen  she  appeared  in  society,  at  six 
teen,  the  charms  of  her  person  were  scarcely 
less  distinguished  than  the  u-it  and  learning 
which  made  her  a  particular  star  in  the  me^ 
tropolitan  society.  In  her  seventeenth  year 
she  \vas  addressed  by  a  young  gentleman  of 
tne  city,  and  engaged  to  be  married  to  him 
upon  his  return  from  London,  whither  he 
soon  afcer  proceeded  to  complete  his  educa- 


[  tion  in  the  law.     This  contract  for  some  rea- 
i  son  was  never  fulfilled.     To  divert  ner  attea- 
|  tion  from  the  disappointment.  Miss  Grame 
|  undertook  the  translation  of  Fenelon's  Te- 
j  lemachus  mtc  English  heroic  verse  ;  and  she 
completed  the   work,   in  three  years.      In 
an  introduction,  written    in   1769,  she  ob 
serves  that  "  she  is  sensible  the  translation 
has  little  merit,"  but  that  "  it  is  sufficient 
for  her  that  it  amused  her  in  a  period  that 
would  have  been  pensive  and  solitary  with 
out  a  pursuit." 

It  appears,  however,  that  her  health  rap 
idly  declined  ;  and  it  was  determined  by  her 
father,*  after  conferences  upon   the   subject 
with  other  physicians,  that  she  should  seek 
its  restoration  by  a  sea-voyage  and  a  tempo 
rary  residence  in  England.     She  sailed  for 
London  under  the  care  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Rich 
ard  Peters,  a  gentleman  of  polished  manners 
and  elevated  character,  whose  connexions 
enabled  him  to  secure  her  introduction  to  the 
most  eminent  persons  and  to  the  first  circles 
in  the  kingdom.     She  was  particularly  no 
ticed  by  George  III.  ;  she  became  acquainted 
with  Laurence  Sterne  and  other  celebrated 
wits  and  men  of  letters  ;  and  she  formed  an 
intimacy  with  the  well-known  Dr.  Fother- 
gill,  which  was  maintained  by  correspon 
dence  until  his  death.      She  remained  in 
England  a  year,  during  which  period  she 
kept  a  journal,  in  which  she  described,  with 
happy  vivacity,  manners  and  persons,  and  the 
contrasts  between  English  and  colonial  so 
ciety. 

After  her  return  to  Philadelphia  she  occu 
pied  the  place  of  her  mother  in  her  father's 
family.  Every  Saturday  evening  for  several 
years  was  set  apart  for  the  reception  of  com 
pany,  and  on  these  occasions  her  pleasino- 
manners  and  brilliant  conversation  were 
«':»'ises  ,.f  never-ending  admiration  to  the  in- 

*  It  is  ivlatcd  that  her  mother  ;iss,-nted  to  Mf^Trw^Tr 

from  hii:  LlShtf°0t  *Piehcd  10r  *•*«  ™so"s  ?oa<£; 

24 


ELIZABETH   GR.EME    FERGUSON. 


telligent  society  of  the  city  and  to  the  stran 
gers  whose  positions  or  abilities  secured  for 
them  a  presentation  at  Dr.  Graeme's  house. 
At  one  of  these  parties  she  became  acquaint 
ed  with  Mr.  Hugh  Henry  Ferguson,  a  young 
gentleman  who  had  recently  arrived  in  the 
country  from  Scotland  ;  and  though  he  was 
ten  years  younger,  her  personal  attractions 
and  the  congeniality  of  their  tastes  soon  led 
to  their  marriage.  Her  father  died  in  a  few 
weeks  after,  and  they  retired  to  Gramme  Park ; 
but  the  approach  of  the  Revolution,  and  the 
adhesion  of  Mr.  Ferguson  to  the  British  par 
ty,  in  1775,  induced  a  speedy  and  perpetual 
separation. 

Mrs.  Ferguson's  position  made  her  an  ob 
ject  of  respectful  consideration  to  individuals 
of  both  parties  during  the  war.  Her  domes 
tic  relations  were  principally  with  the  ene 
my,  but  she  was  by  birth  a  Pennsylvanian, 
and  her  old  friends,  some  of  whom  were 
leading  patriots,  treated  her  wiih  kindness. 
She  appears  in  the  public  history  of  the  time 
as  the  bearer  of  an  extraordinary  letter  from 
the  celebrated  Dr.  Duche  to  General  Wash 
ington,  and  as  the  agent  by  whom  Governor 
Johnstone  made  those  overtures  to  General 
Joseph  Reed  which  were  answered  by  the 
famous  declaration  —  "My  influence  is  but 
small,  but  were  it  as  great  as  Governor  John- 
stone  would  insinuate,  the  king  of  Great  Brit 
ain  has  nothing  in  his  gift  that  would  tempt 
me."* 

The  remainder  of  Mrs.  Ferguson's  life  was 
passed  chiefly  at  Graeme  Park,  in  the  pur 
suits  of  literature,  in  domestic  avocations, 
and  in  offices  of  friendship.  Her  income  was 
greatly  reduced,  but  her  charities  were  never 
interrupted,  nor  was  she  ever  known  to  mur 
mur  at  the  changed  and  comparatively  deso 
late  condition  of  her  later  years.  She  cher 
ished  an  unhesitating  faith  in  the  Christian 
religion,  and  was  familiar  with  the  masters 
of  divinity.  It  is  related  that  she  transcribed 
the  whole  Bible,  to  impress  its  contents  more 
deeply  in  her  memory. 

More  than  twenty  years  after  the  comple- 


*  Sparks'*  Washington,  v.  95,  476 ;  William  B.  Reed's 
Life  of  President  Reed,  i.,  381  ;  American  Remembrancer, 


tion  of  her  translation  oi  Telemachus,  she 
rewrote  the  four  volumes,  adding  occasional 
notes  and  observations.  In  some  memoranda 
dated  at  Graeme  Park,  May  20,  1788,  she 
says  of  the  copy  which  received  her  last  cor 
rections:  "This  is  meant  for  a  particular 
friend,  but  if  I  live  I  intend  to  give  a  more 
correct  version,  and  perhaps,  if  I  meet  with 
encouragement,  shall  have  it  printed.  I  am 
now  quite  undetermined  as  to  all  my  plans 
in  life.  I  have  little  reason  to  think  I  am 
to  remain  here  long ;  but  at  present  I  am  at 
this  place  with  only  my  old  and  fai:hful  friend 
Eliza  Stedman."  "She  lived  until  the  23d  of 
February,  1801,  but  it  does  not  appear  that 
she  ever  again  revised  the  work,  and  it  has 
not  yet  been  printed. 

She  endeavored  to  make  the  translation  as 
literal  as  the  poetical  form  and  the  genius  of 
our  language  would  permit ;  it  is,  however, 
somewhat  diffuse,  the  twenty-four  books  ma 
king  twenty-nine  thousand  and  six  hundred 
lines.  I  have  read  Mrs.  Ferguson's  manu 
script  (which  has  been  deposited  by  her  heirs 
in  the  library  of  the  Philadelphia  Libraiy 
Company),  and  have  compared  parts  of  it 
with  the  original  and  with  other  translations. 
She  had  command  of  a  fine  poetical  diction, 
and  all  the  learning  necessary  for  the  just 
apprehension  and  successful  illustration  of 
her  author  ;  and  it  appears  to  me  that  Fene- 
lon  has  not  been  presented  in  a  more  correct 
or  pleasing  English  dress. 

Some  of  the  minor  poems,  and  a  consider 
able  number  of  the  letters  and  other  composi 
tions  of  Mrs.  Ferguson,  have  been  published, 
and  they  all  evince  a  delicate  and  vigorous 
understanding,  and  an  honorable  character. 

A  talent  for  versification  was  at  that  pe 
riod  not  uncommon  among  the  educated  wo 
men  of  the  country,  but  it  was  principally 
exercised  in  the  expression  of  private  feeling 
or  for  the  amusement  of  particular  circles. 
Some  verses  by  Mrs.  Stockton,  welcoming 
Washington  to  New  Jersey,  have  been  pre 
served  by  Marshall,  and  in  the  monthly  mag 
azines  of  Philadelphia,  New  York,  and  Bos 
ton,  appeared  many  anonymous  poems,  evi 
dently  by  female  authors,  which  were  emi 
nently  creditable  to  their  literary  abilities. 


ELIZABETH   GR^ME    FERGUSON. 


INVOCATION  TO  WISDOM. 

PREFIXED   TO  THK   AUTHOR'S    TRAX-S  NATION  OF  THE 
ADVENTURES  OF   TELE.MACHUS. 


GRAVE  WISDOM,  guardian  of  the  modest  youth, 
Thou  soul  of  knowledge  and  thou  source  of  truth, 
Inspire  my  muse,  and  animate  her  lays, 
That  she  harmonious  may  chant  thy  praiso 

O  could  a  spark  of  that  celestial  fire, 
Which  did  thy  favored  Ft'mMon  inspire, 
Light  on  the  periods  of  my  fettered  theme, 
And  dart  one  radiant,  one  illumined  heam, 
Then  struggling  Passion  might  its  portrait  view. 
And  learn  from  thence  its  tumults  to  subdue. 
This  was  the  pious  prelate's  great  design  : 
As  rays  converged  to  one  bright  point  combine, 
So  do  the  fable  and  the  tale  unite 
The  path  of  Truth  by  Fancy's  torch  to  light ; 
Each  to  one  noble,  generous  aim  aspires, 
And  the  rich  galaxy  at  once  conspires 
To  catch  the  fluttering  mind  and  fix  the  sense 
The  end  can  justify  the  fine  pretence, 
For  youthful  spirits  abstract  reasonings  shun, 
And  from  grave  precept  void  of  life  they  run. 
Though  heathen  gods  are  introduced  to  si  gut, 
'T  is  one  Great  Being  radiates  every  light : 
Seen  through  the  medium  of  ^  lesser  ^uide, 
From  one  pure  fount  is  each  small  rill  supplied ; 
Then,  rigid  Christian,  be  not  too  severe, 
Nor  think  groat  Cambray  in  an  error  here. 

In  parable  the  holy  Jesus  taught — 
Unwound  the  clue  with  mystic  knowledge  fraught. 
He  knew  the  frailties  of  man's  earthly  lot, 
That  truths  important  were  too  soon  forgot; 
He  screened  his  purpose  in  the  pleasing  tale, 
Then  tore  aside  the  heavenly-woven  veil, 
Showed  his  design — the  perfect,  sacred  plan — - 
And  raised  to  angel  what  he  found  but  man ; 
By  nice  gradation  in  this  scale  divine 
The  glorious  meaning  did  illustrious  shine. 
Like  his  mvat  Master,  pious  Cambray  taught, 
And  all  the  good  of  all  mankind  he  sought: 
Through  his  Telemachus  he  points  to  view 
What  youth  should  fly  from  and  what  youth  pursue. 
He  makes  pure.  Wisdom  leave  the  realms  above 
To  screen  a  mortal  from  bewitching  love, 
To  lead  him  through  the  thorny  ways  below, 
And  all  those  arts  of  false  refinement  show 
Which  end  in  fleeting  joy  and  lasting  wo ; 
lie  paints  uay  Venus  in  tumultuous  rage, 
Yet  shows  her  baflled  by  the  guardian  sage, 
Who  draws  his  pupil  from  Idalian  groves, 
From  blooming  Cyprus  and  from  melting  loves. 
Passion  and  Wisdom  hold  perpetual  strife 

Through  the  strange  mazes  of  man's  chequered  life 

Of  all  the  evils  our  trail  nature  knows, 

The  most  acute  from  Love's  emotions  flows. 

The  utmost  ellorts  of  the  brave  are  seen, 

To  ehe-k  the  transports  of  the  Paphian  queen; 

Ylinerva  >;i\es  an  energy  of  soul 

Which  does  the  tide  of  Passion's  rage  control, 

Nor  damps  that  fire  which  generous  youth  should 

But  only  tempers  the  hi-jh-finished  steel:       [feel, 

For  metal  softened,  polished,  and  refined, 

Is  like  th'  opening  of  the  ductile  mind, 


Moulded  by  flame,  made  pliant  to  the  hand, 
Turned  in  the  furnace  to  each  just  command : 
This  fire  is  disappointment,  grief,  and  pain, 
Which,  if  the  soul  with  fortitude  sustain, 
The  furnace  of  affliction  makes  more  bright; 
Yet  higher  burnished  in  Jehovah's  sight, 
And  it  at  last  shall  joyfully  survey 
The  tangled  path  to  where  perfection  lay, 
And  bless  the  briers  of  life's  thorny  road 
That  led  to  peace,  to  happiness,  and  God ! 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  CALYPSO. 

FKO.M    THE    FIRST    BOOK   OF    TELEMACHI79 

SHE  moved  along 

Environed  by  a  beauteous  female  throng. 
As  some  tall  oak,  the  wonder  of  the  wood, 
That  long  the  glory  of  the  grove  has  stood, 
Raises  its  head  superb  above  the  rest, 
Of  the  green  forest  stands  the  pride  confest, 
So  does  Calypso  tower  in  state  supreme, 
And  darts  around  her  an  illumined  beam. 
The  royal  youth  doth  her  soft  charms  admire, 
And  the  rich  lustre  of  her  gay  attire. 
Her  purple  robes  hung  negligent  behind, 
Her  hair  in  careless  ringlets  met  the  wind, 
Her  sparkling  eyes  shone  with  a  vivid  fire, 
Yet  showed  no  unsubdued,  impure  desire. 
With  modest  silence  the  young  prince  pursued 
At  awful  distance,  cautious  to  intrude ; 
With  downcast  eyes  the  reverend  sage  came  last : 
Thus  the  procession  through  the  green  grove  past, 

At  length  they  reached  the  rural  goddess'  grot, 
And  as  they  entered  the  delightful  spot, 
Telemachus  was  much  amazed  to  find 
How  Nature's  beauty  could  allure  the  mind. 
An  elegant  simplicity  here  reigned, 
Which  all  the  rules  of  studied  art  disdained : 
No  massy  gold,  no  polished  silver,  glowed, 
No  stone  that  life  in  all  its  passions  showed, 
No  lively  tints  spread  vigor  o'er  a  face 
And  spoke  the  picture's  animating  grace ; 
No  Doric  pillars,  no  Corinthian  style, 
Rose  in  the  turrets  of  a  lofty  pile. 
Scooped  from  a  rock  the  concave  grotto  lay, 
Where  Nature's  touches  thousand  freaks  display ; 
There  shells  and  pebbles  the  rough  sides  adorned 
That  ruid  method  and  dull  order  scorned; 
A  vine  luxuriant  round  its  tendrils  flung; 
Beneath  its  foliage  ladoned  branches  hung. 
This  vernal  tapestry  careless  seemed  to  hide 
The  craggy  roughness  of  its  rocky  side; 
The  softest  /ephyrs  made  meridian  suns 
Cool  as  when  JSol  his  morning  progress  runs; 
Meandering  fountains  stole  along  the  green. 
And  amaranths  adorned  the  sprightly  scene; 
The  purple  violet  shed  a  richness  round, 
And  strewed  its  beauties  on  the  chequered  ground  , 
The  flowery  rha plots  wreath  around  the  lake, 
And  in  small  basins  mimic  baths  they  make; 
The  (lowers  that  spring  and  glowing  summer  yield, 
In  gay  profusion  ornament  the  field. 

Not  very  distant  from  the  grotto  stood 
A  tufted  grove  of  fragrant  vernal  wood ; 


ELIZABETH    GR^ME    FERGUSON. 


2s. 


The  tempting  fruit  shone  rich  like  burnished  gold, 
A  dazzling  lustre  charming  to  hchold  : 
The  blossoms  white  as  pure  untrodden  snow, 
Their  edges  shining  with  the  scarlet's  glow ; 
They  bloom  perpetual,  and  perpetual  bear, 
And  waft  their  incense  to  the  yielding  air. 
So  close  their  branches,  and  so  near  entwined, 
They  scarcely  trembled  to  the  active  wind ; 
No  piercing  sunbeams  could  their  shades  annoy, 
No  busy  eye  their  sacred  peace  destroy ; 
No  sounds  were  heard  but  sprightly  birds  that  sing, 
And  the  fleet  skylark  mounting  early  wing; 
A  tumbling  cascade,  in  which  broken  falls 
Gushed  down  in  torrents  from  the  rocks'  sharp  walls, 
But  softly  gliding  ere  it  met  the  green, 
Smooth  as  a  mirror,  painted  back  the  scene. 

Not  on  the  mountain's  top  the  grot  was  placed, 
Nor  yet  too  lowly  at  its  feet  debased ; 
From,  all  extremes  the  charming  cave  was  free, 
At  a  small  distance  from  the  briny  sea, 
Where  oft  you  viewed  it,  softened,  calm,  and  clear, 
Like  the  lulled  bosom  when  no  danger's  near; 
Sometimes  enraged,  its  angry  waves  were  found 
Dashing  the  rocks  and  bursting  every  bound. 

Your  eyes  you  turn,  and  from  the  other  side 
You  see  a  river  roll  its  ample  tide. 
There  scattered  islands  rose  to  charm  the  sight, 
And  by  the  change  of  novelty  delight ; 
Lindens  fall,  blooming,  ladencd  flowers  sustain, 
And  raise  their  heads  in  lofty,  high  disdain ; 
In  wanton  circles  the  smooth  fountains  run, 
And  gayly  glistered  in  the  midday  sun ; 
In  rapid  motion  some  their  streams  unfurled, 
While  others  gently  with  ihe  zephyrs  curled — 
By  various  windings  met  their  former  track, 
And  slowly  murmuring,  crept  all  lazy  back. 
Then  in  a  distant  view  in  groups  were  seen 
Blue,  misty  mounts,  and  hills  of  doubtful  green ; 
Their  lofty  summits  lost  above  the  skies, 
And  like  the  clouds  deluded  wandering  eyes, 
As  pleasing  fancy  changed  its  different  mode 
And  whim  and  caprice  did  each  object  robe. 

The  neighboring  mountains  were  more  highly 

graced : 

There  liberal  Nature  clustering  vines  had  placed ; 
In  noble  branches  the  grand  bunches  hung, 
And  purple  raisins  burst  beneath  the  sun ; 
The  foliage  sought  their  lovely  charge  to  hide, 
Yet  the  rich  grapes  shone  through  in  gorgeous  pride. 
Then  low  beneath,  mixed  with  the  golden  grain, 
The  fig  and  olive  overspread  the  plain ; 
Its  tempting  fruit  the  pomegranate  displayed, 
And  globes  of  gold  burst  through  the  vernal  shade  : 
The  wkole  retreat  was  a  delightful  grove, 
A  soft  recess  for  friendship's  sweets  or  love. 


APOLLO  WITH   THE   FLOCKS    OF    KING 
ADMETUS. 

FROM    THE    SAME. 

BENEATH  the  shady  elms,  where  fountains  played, 
The  listening  shepherds  here  his  rest  invade ; 
Th'  informing  song  new  polished  every  soul, 
But  be  ii^a^i ,  ir  passions  in  a  soft  control.  .  .  . 


Swiftly  the  music  and  the  theme  would  change 
To  vivid  meads  where  sparkling  fountains  range, 
Whose  glittering  waters  the  gay  plains  adorn, 
And  all  the  rules  of  art-drawn  channels  scorn ; 
Winding  they  sport :  the  meadows  seem  to  smile, 
Their  verdure  heightened,  and  enriched  their  soil, 
Hence  the  enraptured  swains  began  to  know 
That  joys  serene  from  moral  pleasures  flow ; 
The  happy  rustic  pitied' now  the  king, 
That  could  not,  like  the  cheerful  shepherd,  sing ; 
Their  lowly  roofs  began  the  great  to  draw 
To  view  the  cottage  humbly  thatched  with  straw 
Courtiers  too  oft  are  strangers  to  delight : 
They  rise  unhappy  from  the  restless  night ; 
But  here  the  graces  sweetly  were  arrayed, 
Here  lovely  females  every  charm  displayed — 
Soft  Innocence  and  ever-blooming  Health, 
That  cheerful  triumph  o'er  the  slaves  of  wealth ; 
No  torturing  envy  here  the  peace  invades 
Of  the  mild  shepherd  in  the  greenwood  shades ; 
Each  day  superior  shone  with  new  delight, 
And  gentle  slumbers  crowned  the  sportive  wight , 
The  fluttering  birds  put  forth  their  liveliest  notes, 
And  stretched  to  music  their  expanded  throats ; 
The  fragrant  zephyrs  undulate  the  trees, 
And  fan  to  music  the  enamored  breeze ; 
The  rills  pellucid  murmured  to  the  sound, 
And  floating  harmony  rolled  all  around ; 
The  muses  band,  the  sacred  virgin  train, 
Inspired  the  numbers  of  the  tuneful  swain : 
But  not  supine  they  dwell  in  idle  joys; 
An  active  vigor,  too,  their  limbs  employs  : 
To  run,  to  wrestle,  to  obtain  the  prize, 
And  chase  the  stag  as  he  o'er  mountains  flies, 
Was  oft  the  business  of  a  vacant  day, 
As  through  the  green  grove  they  betook  their  way 
The  gods  looked  down  from  great  Olympus'  height, 
And  almost  envied  man's  supreme  delight. 


THE  INVASION  OF  LOVE. 

FROM  THE  SEVENTH  BOOK  OF  TELEMACHUS. 

CALYPSO  dwelt  on  Cupid's  blooming  face, 
And  clasped  him  to  her  in  a  fond  embrace ; 
Though  goddess  born,  she  feels  love's  soft  alarms 
As  c'ose  she  strains  him  in  her  circling  arms 

The  thoughtless  nymphs  all  felt  the  subtle  flame, 
But  for  the  strange  sensation  knew  no  name, 
Yet  innate  modesty  and  latent  fear 
Whispered  some  power  of  wondrous  force  was  near. 
In  si  ence  they  the  newborn  blaze  conceded, 
And,  b'ushing,  dreaded  it  mi?ht  be  revea'ed , 
The  spreading  fire  a  latent  heat  imparts 
And  flings  its  influence  o'er  their  tender  hearts.  ^ 

The  princely  youth,  most  careless,  too,  surveyed 
The  jocund  sweetness  which  in  Cupid  played, 
Saw  all  his  little  freaks  with  fond  surprise, 
His  thou^ht'ess  frolics,  and  his  laughing  eyes. 
With  pleasing  transport  his  fine  features  trace,!, 
And  on  his  knees  the  little  urchin  placed, 
Views  a1!  the  changes  in  his  boyish  charm", 
Nor  feels  suspicion  of  impending  harms. 


ANNE    ELIZA    BLEECKER. 


MRS.  ANNE  ELIZA  BLEECKER,  a  daughter 
of  Brandt  Schuyler,  of  New  York,  was  born 
in  that  city  in  1752,  and  when  seventeen 
years  of  age  was  married  to  John  J.  Bleecker 
of  New  Rochelle.  After  residing  about  two 
years  in  Poughkeepsie,  Mr.  Bleecker  removed 
to  Tomhanick,  a  secluded  little  village  eigh 
teen  miles  from  Albany,  where  five  years 
were  passed  in  uninterrupted  happiness. — 
Mrs.  Bleecker's  mother,  and  her  half-sister, 
Miss  Ten  Eyck,  passed  much  of  the  time  with 
her,  and  her  husband  saw  the  fruition  of  his 
hopes  in  the  success  of  plans  which  had  drawn 
him  from  the  more  populous  parts  of  the 
colony.  It  w^as  in  this  period  that  Mrs. 
Bleecker  wrote  most  of  her  poems  which 
have  been  preserved.  Before  her  marriage, 
her  playful  or  serious  verses  had  amused  or 
charmed  the  circle  in  which  she  moved  — 
o'ie  of  the  most  intelligent  and  accomplished 
then  in  America  —  and  she  now  found  a  sol 
ace  for  the  absence  of  society  in  the  indul 
gence  of  a  taste  for  literature.  The  follow 
ing  extract  from  one  of  her  poems  not  only 
illustrates  her  style,  but  gives  us  a  glimpse 
•  if  her  situation  : 

From  yon  grove  the  woodcock  rises, 

Mark  her  progress  by  her  notes ; 
Hi.^li  in  air  her  wings  she  poises, 

Then  like  lightning  down  she  shoots. 
INow  the  whip-poor-will  beginning/ 

Clamorous  on  a  pointed  rail, 
Drowns  the  more  melodious  singing 

Of  the  cat-bird,  thrush,  and  quail. 
Cast,  your  eyes  beyond  this  meadow, 

Painted  by  a  hand  divine, 
And  observe  the  ample  shadow 
Of  that  solemn  ridge  of  pine. 
Here  a  trickling  rill  depending, 

Glitters  through  the  artless  bower; 
And  the  silver  dew  descending, 
Doubly  radiates  every  flower. 
While  I  speak,  the  sun  is  vanished, 

All  the  gilded  clouds  are  lied, 
Ah.sie  from  the  groves  is  banished, 
i\  ox  ions  vapors  round  us  spread. 
Knnil  toil  is  now  suspended. 

Sleep  inv;i,l,.s  the  peasant's  eyes, 
Each  diurnal  task  is  ended, 

Wlulo  soft  Luna  climbs  the  skies. 
Some   lines  addressed  to  Mr.  Bleecker  while 
on  a  voyage  down  the  Hudson,  suggest  the 


(Born  1752-Died  1783). 

changes  of  three  quarters  of  a  century  in  the 


„    ~j  ,_„  —  j     __ 

travel  and  cuhure  a'ong  the  most  beautiful 
of  rivers.     She  says: 

Methinks  I  see  the  broad,  majestic  sheet 
Swell  to  the  wind ;  the  flying  shores  retreat: 
I  see  the  banks,  with  varied  foliage  gay, 
Inhale  the  misty  sun's  reluctant  ray ; 
The  lofty  groves,  stripped  of  their  verdure,  rise 
To  the  inclemencc  of  autumnal  skies.         [wooda 
Rough    mountains    now   appear,  while    pendant 
Hang  o'er  the  gloomy  steep  and  shade  the  floods ; 
Slow  moves  the  vessel,  while  each  distant  sound 
The  caverned  echoes  doubly  loud  rebound. 
It  was  a  custom  for  the  lazy  sloops  occasion 
ally  to  rest  by  the  hunting-grounds  or  in  the 
highlands,  but  she  implores  her  husband  not 
to  tempt 

Fate,  on  those  stupendous  rocks 
Where  never  shepherd  led  his  timid  flocks, 

and  dreams  that  instead  of  the  musket-shot, 
she  can  hear  — 

The  melting  flute's  melodious  sound, 
Which  dying  zephyrs  waft  alternate  round ; 
While  rocks,  in  notes  responsive,  soft  complain, 
And  think  Amphion  strikes  his  lyre  again. 
Ah  !  'tis  my  Bleecker  breathes  our  mutual  loves, 
And  sends  the  trembling  airs  through  vocal  groves. 
The  approach  of  the  British  army  under  Gen 
eral  Burgoyne,  in  1777,  was  the  first  event 
to  disturb  this  repose.  Mr.  Bleecker  left 
Tomhanick  to  make  arrangements  for  the  re 
moval  of  his  family  to  Albany  ;  but  while  he 
was  gone,  hearing  that  the  enemy  was  but 
two  miles  distant,  she  hastily  started  for  the 
city,  bearing  her  youngest  child  in  her  arms, 
and  leading  the  other,  who  was  but  four  years 
of  age,  by  the  hand.  A  single  domestic  ac 
companied  her,  and  they  rested  at  night  in 
a  garret,  after  a  dreary  and  most  exhausting 
walk  through  the  wilderness.  The  next 
morning  they  met  Mr.  Bleecker  coming  from 
Albany,  and  returned  with  him  to  the  city. 
The  youngest  of  the  children  died  a  few  days 
after,  and  within  a  month  Mrs.  Bleecker's 
mother  expired  in  her  arms,  at  Redhook. 
The  death  of  her  child  is  commemorated  in 
the  following  lines,  which  evince  genuine 
feeling,  and  are  in  a  very  natural  style:— 

WR1TTKX    OX    THE     IIKTIIKAT    FIIOX    BURUOYXE. 

Was  it  for  this,  with  thee,  a  pleasing  load, 

_  sadly  wandered  through  the  hostile  wood . 

When  I  thought  Fortune's  spite  could  do  no  more, 


ANNE    ELIZA    BLEECKER. 


To  see  thee  perish  on  a  foreign  shore  1 

Oh  my  loved  babe  !  my  treasures  left  behind 

Ne'er  sunk  a  cloud  of  grief  upon  my  mind; 

Rich  in  my  children,  on  my  arms  I  bore 

My  living  treasures  from  the  scalper's  power: 

When  I  sat  down  to  rest,  beneath  some  shade, 

On  the  soft  grass  how  innocent  she  played, 

While  her  sweet  sister  from  the  fragrant  wild 

Collects  the  flowers  lo  please  my  precious  child, 

Unconscious  of  her  danger,  laughing  roves, 

Nor  dreads  the  painted  savage  in  the  groves ! 

Soon  as  -the  spires  of  Albany  appeared, 
With  fallacies  my  rising  grief  I  cheered : 
"  Resign^'  I  bear,"  said  I,  '<  Heaven's  just  reproof, 
Content  to  dwell  beneath  a  stranger's  roof- 
Content  my  babes  should  eat  dependent  bread, 
Or  by  the  labor  of  my  hands  be  fed. 
What  though  my  houses,  lands,  and  goods,  are  gone, 
My  babes  remain — these  I  can  call  my  own !" 
But  soon  my  loved  Abella  hung  her  head — 
From  her  soft  cheek  the  bright  carnation  fled ; 
Her  smooth,  transparent  skin  too  plainly  showed 
How  fierce  through  every  vein  tne  fever  glowed. 
— In  bitter  anguish  o'er  her  limbs  I  hung, 
I  wept  and  sighed,  but  sorrow  chained  my  tongue ; 
At  length  her  languid  eyes  closed  from  the  day, 
The  idol  of  my  soul  was  torn  away ; 
Her  spirit  fled  and  left  me  ghastly  clay ! 

Then — then  my  soul  rejected  all  relief, 
Comfort  I  wished  not,  for  I  loved  my  grief: 
"  Hear,  my  Abella,"  cried  I,  "  hear  me  mourn  ! 
For  one  short  moment,  oh,  my  child  !  return  ; 
Let  my  complaint  detain  thee  from  the  skies, 
Though  troops  of  angels  urge  thee  on  to  rise".... 
My  friends  press  round  me  with  officious  care, 
Bid  me  suppress  my  sighs,  nor  drop  a  tear; 
Of  resignation  talked — passions  subdued — 
Of  souls  serene,  and  Christian  fortitude — 
Bade  me  be  calm,  nor  murmur  at  my  loss, 
But  unrepining  bear  each  heavy  cross. 

"  Go  !"  cried  I,  raging,  "  stoic  bosoms,  go  ! 
Whose  hearts  vibrate  not  to  the  sound  of  wo ; 
Go  from  the  sweet  society  of  men, 
Seek  some  unfeeling  tiger's  savage  den, 
There,  calm,  alone,  of  resignation  preach — 
My  Christ's  examples  better  precepts  teach." 
Where  the  cold  limbs  of  gentle  Lazarus  lay, 
I  find  him  weeping  o'er  the  humid  clay ; 
His  spirit  groaned,  while  the  beholders  said, 
With  gushing  eyes,  "  See  how  he  loved  the  dead  !" 
Yes,  'tis  my  boast  to  harbor  in  my  breast 
The  sensibilities  by  God  exprest ; 
Nor  shall  the  mollifying  hand  of  Time, 
Which  wipes  off  common  sorrows,  cancel  mine. 

From  this  time  a  pensive  melancholy  took 
the  place  of  the  quiet  gayety  that  had  pre 
viously  distinguished  her  manners;  but  her 
life  was  not  marked  by  any  event  of  partic 
ular  interest  until  the  summer  of  1781,  when 
her  husband  was  taken  prisoner  by  a  party 
of  tories,  and  her  sensitive  spirit  was  crushed 
in  despair.  She  fled  to  Albany,  where  he  re 
joined  her  at  the  end  of  a  week  ;  but  his  sud 


den  restoration  produced  an  excitement  even 
deeper  than  that  occasioned  by  his  supposed 
death,  and  she  never  regained  hei  health,  no* 
scarcely  her  composure.  She  returned  to 
Tonihanick,  and  in  the  spring  of  1783  revis 
ited  New  York,  in  the  hope  that  a  change 
of  scene  and  the  society  of  her  early  friends 
would  restore  something  of  her  strength  ar.d 
happiness  ;  but  war  had  changed  the  pleas 
ant  places  she  remembered,  and  her  dearest 
friends  were  dead.  She  went  back  with  her 
husband  to  Tonihanick,  where  she  died  on 
the  23d  of  the  following  .November.  Her 
last  return  to  her  home  is  commemorated  in 
these  pleasing  verses: 

Hail,  happy  shades !    though  clad  with  heavy 
At  sight  of  you  with  joy  my  bosom  glows ;  [snows, 
Ye  arching  pines  that  bow  with  every  breeze, 
Ye  poplars,  elms,  all  hail,  my  well-known  trees ! 
And  now  my  peaceful  mansion  strikes  my  eye, 
And  now  the  tinkling  rivulet  I  spy ; — 
My  little  garden,  Flora,  hast  thou  keptj 
And  watched  my  pinks  and  lilies  while  I  wept  ? 
Ah  me !  that  spot  with  blooms  so  lately  graced, 
WTith  storms  and  driving  snows  is  now  defaced  : 
Sharp  icicles  from  every  bush  depend, 
And  frosts  all  dazzling  o'er  the  beds  extend ; 
Yet  soon  fair  spring  shall  give  another  scene, 
And  yellow  cowslips  gild  the  level  green ; 
My  little  orchard,  sprouting  at  each  bough, 
Fragrant  with  clustering  blossoms  deep  shall  glow : 
Oh !  then  't  is  sweet  the  tufted  grass  to  tread, 
But  sweeter  slumb'ring  in  the  balmy  shade ; 
The  rapid  humming-bird,  with  ruby  breast, 
Seeks  the  parterre  with  early  blue-bells  drest, 
Drinks  deep  the  honeysuckle  dew,  or  drives 
The  lab'ring  bee  to  her  domestic  hives ; 
Then  shines  the  lupin  bright  with  morning  gems, 
And  sleepy  poppies  nod  upon  their  stems ; 
The  humble  violet  and  the  dulcet  rose, 
The  stately  lily  then,  and  tulip,  blows.  .  .  . 

But  when  the  vernal  breezes  pass  away, 
And  loftier  Phoebus  darts  a  fiercer  ray, 
The  spiky  corn  then  rattles  all  around, 
And  dashing  cascades  give  a  pleasing  sounc7! ; 
Shrill  sings  the  locust  with  prolonged  note, 
The  cricket  chirps  familiar  in  each  cot ; 
The  village  children,  rambling  o'er  yon  hill, 
With  berries  all  their  painted  baskets  fill : 
They  rob  the  squirrels'  little  walnut  store, 
And  climb  the  half-exhausted  tree  for  more. 
Or  else  to  fields  of  maize  nocturnal  hie, 
Where  hid,  th'  elusive  watermelons  lie 
Then  load  their  tender  shoulders  with  the  prey, 
And  laughing  bear  the  bulky  fruit  away. 

Mrs.  Bleecker  possessed  considerable  beau- 
tv,  and  she  was  much  admired  in  society.  A 
collection  of  her  posthumous  works,  in  prose 
and  verse,  was  published  in  1793,  and  again 
in  1809,  with  a  notice  of  her  life  by  her 
daughter,  Mrs  Marietta  V.  Faugeres. 


PHILLIS    WHEATLEY    PETERS. 


(Born  1754— Died  1794). 


THIS  "daughter  of  the  murky  Senega], 
as  she  is  styled  by  an  admiring con:emporar 
critic,  we  suppose  may  be  considered  as  a 
Americai',  since  she  was  but  six  years  of  ag 
when  brought  to  Boston  and  sold  in  the  slave 
market  of  that  city,  in  1761.  If  not  so  grea 
a  poet  as  the  abbe  Gregoire  contended,  sh 
was  certainly  a  remarkable  phenomenon,  anc 
her  name  is  entitled  to  a  place  in  the  histo 
ries  of  her  race,  of  her  sex,  and  of  our  liter 
alure. 

She  was  purchased  by  the  wife  of  Mr 
John  Wheatley,  a  respectable  merchant  o: 
Boston,  Who  was  anxious  to  superintend  the 
education  of  a  domestic  to  attend  upon  her 
person  in  the  approaching  period  of  old  age 
This  amiable  woman  on  visiting  the  market 
was  attracted  by  the  modest  demeanor  of  a 
little  child,  in  a  sort  of  "fillibeg,"  who  hac 
just  arrived,  and  taking  her  home,  confided 
her  instruction  in  part  to  a  daughter,  who, 
pleased  with  her  good  behavior  and  quick 
apprehension,  determined    to  teach  her  to 
read  and  write.     The  readiness  with  which 
she  acquired  knowledge  surprised  as  much 
us  it  pleased  her  mistress,  and  it  is  probable 
that  but  few  of  the  white  children  of  Boston 
were  brought  up  under  circumstances  better 
calculated  for  the  full  development  of  their  nat 
ural  abilities.    Her  ambition  was  stimulated  : 
she  became  acquainted  with  grammar,  histo 
ry ,  ancien  t  and  modern  geography,  and  astron 
omy,  and  studied  Latin  so  as  to  read  Horace 
with  such  ease  and  enjoyment  that  her  French 
biographer  supposes  the  great  Roman  had 

considerable  influence  upon  her  literary  tastes 

and  the  choice  of  her  subjects  of  composition. 
A  general  interest  was  felt  in  the  sooty  prodi- 
g\  ;  the  best  libraries  were  open  to  her  :  and 
she  had  opportunities  for  conversation  with 
ihr  most  accomplished  and  distinguished  per 
sons  in  the  city. 

Nhe  appears  to  have  had  but  an  indifferent 
physical  constitution,  and  when  a  son  of  Mr. 
Wheatley  visited  England,  in  1772,  it  was 

iecided  by  the  advice  of  the  family  physician 
that  Phillis  should  accompany  him  for  the 
benefit  of  i  he  sea-voyage.  In  London  she 


was  treated  with  nearly  as  much  considera 
tion  as  more  recently  has  been  awarded  to 
Mr.  Frederick  Douglass.  She  was  intro-? 
duced  to  many  of  the  nobility  and  gentry, 
and  would  have  been  received  at  court  but 
for  the  absence  of  (he  royal  family  from  the 
metropolis.  Her  poems  were  published  un 
der  the  patronage  of  the  Countess  of  Hun 
tingdon,  wi.h  a  letter  from  her  master,  and 
the  following  curious  attestation  of  their  gen 
uineness  : 

"To  THK  PUBLIC.— As  it  has  been  repeatedly  sug 
gested  to  the  publisher,  by  persons  who  have  seen 
the  manuscript,  that  numbers  would  be  ready  to  sus 
pect  they  were  not  really  the  writings  of  Phillis,  he 
has  procured  the  following  attestation  from  the  most 
respectable  characters  in  Boston,  that  none  might 
have  the  least  ground  for  disputing  their  original : 
\Vc,  whose  names  are  underwritten,  do  assure  the 
vorld  that  the  poems  specified  in  the  following  page* 
vere  (as  we  verily  believe)  written  by  Phillis,  a 
'ounur  negro-girl,  who  was,  but  a  few  years  since, 
.mm-lit  an  uncultivated  barbarian  from*  Africa,  and 
las  ever  since  been,  and  now  is,  under  the  disadvan- 
;age  of  serving  as  a  slave  in  a  family  in  this  town. 
She  has  been  examined  by  some  of  the  best  judges, 
and  is  thought  qualified  to' write  them. 

HU  Excellency  THOMAS  HI-TOTIIHOX,  Governor. 
The  Hon.  A.VDRKW  OLIVER  Lieut    Governor 

The  Hon.  Thorn;,,  Hnl.hard,     The  Rev.  Cha*.  Chnumev.  ri.  D., 
I  he  Hon.  John  KrviMg,  The  Rev.  Mather  IHl,-.  j).  1)., 

7  he  Hon..  Ja.ne-  I'.tts.  The  Rev.  Edvv'd  I'emhertor.,  I).  D., 

1  he  Hon.  Hanson  Giay.          The  Rev.  Andrew  Klhot,  ]).  I)., 
•  Hon.  James  Howdoin,       The  Rev.  Samuel  Cooper,  B.  I)., 
Hancock,  Ksq.,  The  Rev.  Mr.  Samuel  Mather, 


Jo  eph  fiicru.  K<(j., 
Hi  -hard  Carry,  K-q ., 


The  Kev.  Mr.  John  Moorhend 
Mr.  John  Wheatiey  (her  tr.asier).1 


In  1774  — the  year  after  the  return  of  Phil 
is  to  Boston  —  her  mistress  died  ;  she  soon 
ost  her  master,  and  her  younger  mistress, 

his  daughter  :  and  the  son  having  married 
nd  settled  in  England,  she  was  left  without 
protector  or  a  home.  The  events  which 
mmediately  preceded  the  Revolution  now 
ngrossed  the  attention  of  those  acquaintan- 
es  who  in  more  peaceful  and  prosperous 
mes  would  have  been  her  friends:  and 
lough  she  took  an  apartment  and  attempt- 

d  in  some  way  to  support  herself,  she  saw 

vith  fears  the  approach  of  poverty,  and  at 
st,  in  despair,  resorted  to  marriage  as  the 
ily  alternative  of  destitution. 

',  who   derived    his    information 

rom  M.  Giraud,  the  French  consul  at  Bos- 
n  in  1805,  states  that  her  husband,  in  the 

'  I^^^".^lowin*  imge-  Allude  to  the  content 


30 


PHILLIS   WHEATLEY   PETERS. 


31 


superiority  of  his  understanding  to  that  of 
other  negroes,  was  also  a  kind  of  phenome 
non  ;  that  he  "  became  a  lawyer,  under  the 
name  of  Doctor  Peters,  and  plead  before  the 
tribunals  the  cause  of  the  blacks ;"  and  that 
"  the  reputation  he  enjoyed  procured  him  a 
fortune."*     But  a  later  biographer!  of  Phil- 
lis  declares  that  Peters  "  kept  a  grocery,  in 
Court  street,  and  was  a  man  of  handsome 
person  and  manners,  wearing  a  wig,  carry 
ing  a  cane,  and  quite  acting  the  gentleman  ;" 
that  "  he  proved  utterly  unworthy  of  the  dis 
tinguished  woman   who  honored  him  with 
her  alliance;"  that  he  was  unsuccessful  in 
business,  failing  soon  after  their  marriage, 
and  "  was  too  proud  and  too  indolent  to  ap 
ply  himself  to  any  occupation  below  his  fan 
cied   dignity."     Whether  Peters    practised 
physic  and  law  or  not,  it  appears  pretty  cer 
tain  that  he  did  not  make  a  fortune,  and  that 
the  match  was  a  very  unhappy  one,  though 
we  think  the  author  last  quoted,  who  is  one 
of  the  family,  shows  an  undue  partiality  for 
his  maternal  ancestor.     Peters  in  his  adver 
sity  was  not  very  unreasonable  in  demand 
ing  that  his  wife  should  attend  to  domestic 
affairs — that  she  should  cook  his  breakfast 
and  darn  his  stockings  ;  but  she  too  had  cer 
tain  notions  of  "dignity,"  and  regarded  as 
altogether  beneath  her  such  unpoetical  oc 
cupations.      During  the  war  they  lived  at 
Wilmington,  in  the  interior  of  Massachu 
setts,  and  in  this  period  Phillis  became  the 
mother  of  three  children.     After  the  peace, 
they  returned  to  Boston,  and  continued  to 
live  there,  most  of  the  time  i-n  wretched  pov 
erty,  till  the  death  of  Phillis,  on  tne  5th  of 
December,  1794. 

Besides  the  poems  included  in  the  editions 
of  1 773  and  1835,  she  wrote  numerous  pieces 
which  have  not  been  printed,  one  of  which 
is  referred  to  in  the  following  letter  from 
Washington : 

"CAMBRIDGE,  February  28,  1776. 
"Miss  PHILLIS:  Your  favor  of  the  26th  of  October 
did  not  reach  my  hands  till  the  middle  of  December. 
Time  enough,  you  will  say,  to  have  given  an  answer 
ere  this.  Granted.  But  a  variety  of  important  occur 
rences,  continually  interposing  to  distract  the  mind 


and  withdraw  the  attention,  I  hope  will  apologise  for 
the  delay,  and  plead  my  excuse  for  the  seeming  but 
not  real  neglect.  1  thank  you  most  sincerely  for  your 
polite  notice  of  me,  in  the  elegant  lines  you  enclosed  ; 
and  however  undeserving  I  may  be  of  such  encomi 
um  and  panegyric,  the  style  and  manner  exhibit  a 
striking  proof  of  your  poetical  talents  ;  in  honor  of 

which,  and  as  a  tr1— "-   "-1--  J"~  " '  " — 1J 

have  published  the 


aULlXiK     uruui    Ui    ^uui     JJUCLUJCU     LeiirjiiLo  ,    tu  nuinji   \JL 

-hich,  and  as  a  tribute  justly  due  to  you,  1  would 
nave  published  the  poem,  had  I  not  been  apprehen 
sive  that,  while  I  only  meant  to  give  the  world  this 


*  An  Inquiry  concerning  the  Intellectual  and  Moral  Fac 
ulties  and  Literature  of  Nesrroes,  followed  with  an  Account 
of  the  Lives  and  Works  of  Fifteen  Ne-roes  and  Mulattoes, 
distinguished  in  Science,  Literature,  and  the  Arts  :  By  H. 
Grfigoire,  formerly  Bishop  of  Blois.  Member  ot  the  Con 
servative  Senate,  of  the  Institute  of  France,  <fec.,  <fcc.  Trans 
lated  by  D.  B.  Warden,  Secretary  of  Legation,  &c.  Brook 
lyn,  16 10 

t  See  memoir  prefixed  to  the  edition  of  her  poems  pub 
lished  by  Light  &  Ilorton.  Boston,  W35. 


sivt;  iimu   wniic   i  Miuj   in<_-c*ni/   IA^  ft i » *-  mv^   »» 

new  instance  of  your  genius,  I  might  have  incurred 
the  imputation  of  vanity.  This,  and  nothing  else,  de 
termined  me  not  to  give  it  place  in  the  public  prints 
If  you  should  ever  come  to  Cambridge,  or  near  head 
quarters,  1  shall  be  happy  to  see  a  person  so  favored 
by  the  muses,  and  to  whom  Nature  has  been  so  lib 
eral  and  beneficent  in  her  dispensations.  I  am,  with 
great  respect,  your  obedient,  humble  servant, 

"GKOHGE  WASHINGTON." 

In  a  note  to  the  memoir  of  Phillis  pub 
lished  by  one  of  her  descendants,  it  is  stated 
that  after  her  death,  her  papers,  which  had 
been  confided  to  an  acquaintance,  were  de 
manded  by  Peters,  and  yielded  to  his  impor 
tunity  ;  and  that  Peters  subsequently  went 
to  the  south,  carrying  with  him  these  papers, 
which  were  never  afterward  heard  of.  The 
MSS.,  however,  are  still  in  existence:  they 
are  owned  by  an  accomplished  citizen  of 
Philadelphia,  whose  mother  was  one  of  the 
patrons  of  the  author.  I  learn  from  this  gen 
tleman  that  Phillis  wrote  with  singular  flu 
ency,  and  that  she  excelled  particularly  in 
acrostics  and  in  other  equally  difficult  tricks 
of  literary  dexterity. 

The  intellectual  character  of  Phillis  Wheat- 
ley  Peters  has  been  much  discussed,  but  chief 
ly  by  partisans.  On  one  hand,  Mr.  Jefferson 
declares  that  "  the  pieces  published  under  her 
name  are  below  the  dignity  of  criticism,"  and 
that  "  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad  are  to  her 
as  Hercules  to  the  author  of  that  poem ;"  and 
on  the  other  hand,  the  abbe  Gregoire,  Mr. 
Clarkson,  and  many  more,  see  in  her  works 
the  signs  of  a  genuine  poetical  inspiration. 
They  seem  to  me  to  be  quite  equal  to  much 
of  the  contemporary  verse  that  is  admitted 
to  be  poetry  by  Phillis's  severest  judges  ; 
though  her  odes,  elegies,  and  other  compo 
sitions,  are  but  harmonious  commonplace,  ii 
would  be  difficult  to  find  in  the  productions 
of  American  women,  for  the  hundred  and  fif 
ty  years  that  had  elapsed  since  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Bradstreet,  anything  superior  in  senti 
ment,  fancy,  or  diction. 

—  In  a  portrait  of  Phillis,  prefixed  to  her 
poems  and  declared  to  be  an  extraordinary 
likeness,  she  is  represented  as  of  a  rather 
pretty  and  intelligent  appearance.  It  is  from 
a  picture  painted  while  she  was  in  Lone 


32 


PHILLIS    WHEATLEY    PETERS. 


ON    TIIK    DKATH   OF   THE    REV.  MR. 

<;KOJ«;K  \VHITK FIELD.— ITTO. 

Hui..  happy  saint!  on  thine  immortal  throne, 
Possessed  of  glory,  life,  and  bliss  unknown: 
^  «'  !"'•"  no  more  the  music  of  thv  tongue; 
Thy  wonted  auditories  cease  to  throng. 
Thy  sermons  in  unequalled  accents  flowed, 
And  every  bosom  with  devotion  glowed; 
Thou  didst,  in  strains  of  eloquence  refined, 
Inflame  the  heart,  and  captivate  the  mind. 
Unhappy,  we  the  setting  sun  deplore, 
Sj  glorious  once,  but  ah  !  it  shines  no  more. 
Behold  the  prophet  in  his  towering  flight! 
He  leaves  the  earth  for  heaven's  unmeasured  height, 
And  worl-ls  unknown  rece'vc  him  from  our  sight. 
There  Whitefield  win-rswith  rapid  course  his  way, 
And  sails  to  Zirm  through  vast  seas  of  day. 
Thy  prayers,  great  saint,  and  thine  incessant  cries, 
Have  pierced  the  bosom  of  thy  native  skies. 
Thou,  moon,  hast  seen,  and  all  the  stars  of  light, 
How  hi-  1:  is  wrestled  with  his  God  by  night. 
He  prayel  that  -race  in  every  heart  might  dwell ; 
He  loiued  to  see  America  excel; 
He  charged  its  youth  that  every  grace  divine 
Should  with  full  lustre  in  their  conduct  shine. 
That  Savior,  which  his  soul  did  first  receive, 
The  greatest  gift  that  even  a  God  can  give, 
He  freely  olll-red  to  the  numerous  throng 
That  on  his  lips  with  list'ning  pleasure  hung. 

"  Take  him,  ye  wretched,  for  your  only  good, 
Take  him,  ye  starving  sinners,  for  your  food; 
Ye  thirsty,  come  to  this  life-giving  stream, 
Ye  preachers,  take  him  for  your  joyful  theme; 
Take  hi:n,  my  dear  Americans."  he  said, 
^Be  your  c  -mplaints  ,„,  his  kind  bosom  laid: 
Take  him.  ye  Africans,  he  longs  for  you; 
Impartial  Savior,  is  his  title  due: 
Washed  in  the  fount. (in  of  redeeming  blood, 
lou  shall  he  sons,  and  kinns.  and  priests  to  God." 

^But  though  arrested  by  the  hand  of  death, 
WhitefieW  no  more  exerts  his  lab'rin-  breath, 
YtA  let  us  view  him  in  the  eternal  skies, 
Let  every  heart  to  this  bright  vision  rise; 
While  the  t  >mb  safe  retains  its  sacred  trust, 
Till  life  divine  reanimates  his  dust 


FANCY. 

FM,M    A    POEM    ON    THK    IMAGINATION. 

THOUGH  Winter   frowns,  t,   Fancy's  raptured 
The  fields  may  flourish,  an. I  -ay  scenes  arise;  [eyes 
The  tru/cii  derps  may  burst  their  iron  bands, 
And  r»|d  their  waters  murmur  o'er  the  sands. 
Fair    Flor.i  m:iy  resume  her  fra-rant  rei-n, 
Ar.d  with  h-.-r  flowery  riches  de--]<   the  plain; 

Showers  ma)  descend,  and  dews  their  gems  disclose, 

And  nectar  sparkle  on  the  blooming  rose.  .  .  . 

Fancy  mi-lit  ,10U-  ],,,r  si||v,>n  pinions  try 
To  rise  from  ,.;irth.  and  sweep  the  expans  -  on  }uVh  ; 
From  Tithon's  bed  now  might  Aurora  rise, 
Her  cheeks  all  plowing  with  celestial  dyi-. 
While  a  pure  stream  of  li-ht  o'erflows' the  skies. 
The  mniiar.-h  of  the  day  I  mLdit  heliold. 
And  all  the  mountains  tipped  with  radiant  gold, 


But  I  reluctant  leave  the  pleasing  views, 
Which  Fancy  dresses  to  delight  the  muse; 
Winter  austere  forbids  me  to  aspire. 
And  northern  tempests  damp  the  rising  fire  : 

They  chill  the  tides  of  P'ancy's  flowing  sea 

Onse,  then,  my  song,  cease  then  the  unequio  l 


A  FAREWELL  TO  AMERICA. 

TO  MRS.  S.  W. 

AIIIKU,  New  England's  smiling  meads, 

Adieu,  the  flowery  plain ; 
I  leave  thine  opening  charms,  O  Spring 

And  tempt  the  roaring  main. 
In  vain  for  me  the  flow'rets  rise, 
And  boast  their  gaudy  pride, 
While  here  beneath  the  northern  skies 

I  mourn  for  health  denied. 
Celestial  maid  of  rosy  hue, 
Oh  let  me  feel  thy  reign  ! 
I  languish  till  thy  face  I  view, 

Thy  vanished  joys  regain. 
Susannah  mourns,  nor  can  I  bear 

To  see  the  crystal  shower, 
Or  mark  the  tender  falling  teat, 

At  sad  departure's  hour; 
Nor  unregarding  can  I  see 

Her  soul  with  grief  opprest , 
But  let  no  sighs,  no  groans  for  me, 

Steal  from  its  pensive  breast. 
In  vain  the  feathered  warblers  sing, 

In  vain  the  garden  blooms, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  spring 

Breathes  out  her  sweet  perfumes, 
While  for  Britannia's  distant  shore 

We  sweep  the  liquid  plain, 
And  with  astonished  eyes  explore 

The  wide-extended  main. 
Lo  J  Health  appears,  celestial  dame  ! 

Complacent  and  serene, 
With  Hebe's  mantle  o'er  her  frame, 

With  soul-delighting  mien. 
To  mark  the  vale  where  London  lies, 

With  i-iisty  vapors  crowned, 
Which  cloud  Aurora's  thousand  dyes, 

And  veil  her  charms  around. 
Why,  Pluebus,  moves  thy  car  so  slow  « 

So  slow  thy  rising  ray  ? 
Give  us  the  famous  town  to  view, 

Thou  glorious  king  of  day  ! 
For  thee,  Britannia,  I  resign 

New  En-land's  smiling  fields; 
To  view  narain  her  charms  divine, 
What  joy  the  prospect  yields  ! 
But  thou.  Temptation,  hence  away, 

AVith  all  thy  fatal  train, 
Nor  once  seduce  my  soul  away, 

By  thine  enchanting  strain. 
Thrice  happy  they,  whose  heavenly  shield 

Secures  their  soul  from  harms, 
And  fell  Temptation  on  the  field 
Of  all  its  power  disarms  ' 


SUSANNAH    ROW  SON. 


(Born  1762-Died  1824). 


SCPANNAH  HASWELL,  a  daughter  of  Lieu 
tenant  William  Haswell  of  the  British  navy, 
was  about  seven  y  ears  of  age  when  her  father, 
then  a  widower,  was  sent  to  the  New  Eng 
land  station,  in  1769.  After  being  wrecked 
on  Lovell's  island,  the  family,  consisting  of 
the  lieutenant,  his  daughter,  and  her  nurse, 
were  settled  at  Nantasket,  where  Haswell 
married  a  native  of  the  colony,  and  resided 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution,  when, 
being  a  half-pay  officer,  he  was  considered  a 
prisoner  of  war,  and  sent  into  the  interior,  and 
subsequently,  by  cartel,  to  Halifax,  whence 
he  proceeded  to  London.  His  other  children 
were  two  soris,  who  became  officers  in  the 
American  navy,  in  which  they  were  honor 
ably  distinguished. 

Miss  Haswell,  while  a  child,  in  Massa 
chusetts,  was  often  in  the  company  of  James 
Otis,  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Warren,  who  were 
pleased  with  her  precocity,  and  careful  edu 
cation,  and  she  won  then  many  encomiums 
from  the  great  orator,  which  were  remem 
bered  in  after  years  with  more  delight  than 
all  the  plaudits  of  the  dress  circle  or  the 
praises  of  the  critics.  She  arrived  in  London 
about  the  year  1784,  and  in  1786  was  married 
there  to  William  Rowson,  who  was  probably 
in  some  way  connected  with  the  theatre.  In 
the  same  year  she  published  her  first  novel, 
Victoria,  which  was  dedicated  to  Georgiana, 
Duchess  of  Devonshire,  who  became  her  pa 
troness  and  introduced  her  to  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  through  whom  she  obtained  a  pen 
sion  for  her  father.  She  next  edited  Mary  or 
the  Test  of  Honor,  a  novel,  published  in  1785, 
and  wrote,  in  quick  succession,  A  Trip  to  Par 
nassus,  A  Critique  of  Authors  and  Perform 
ers,  The  Fille  de  Chambre,  The  Inquisitor, 
Mentoria,  and  Charlotte  Temple,  the  tale  by 
which  she  is  now  chiefly  known,  of  which 
more  than  twenty-five  thousand  copies  were 
sold  in  a  few  years. 

In  1793  Mrs.  Rowson  returned  to  the  Uni 
ted  States,  and  was  for  three  years  engaged 
as  an  actress,  in  the  Philadelphia  theatre. 
She  was  pretty  and  graceful,  and  was  a  fa 
vorite  in  genteel  comedy,  but  while  attentive 


to  her  professional  duties,  she  was  still  in 
dustrious  as  an  author,  and  wrote  The  Trials 
of  the  Heart,  a  novel  ;  Slaves  in  Algiers, 
an  opera;  The  Female  Patriot,  a  comedy; 
ar.d  The  Volunteers,  a  farce  relating  to  the 
whiskey  insurrection  in  Pennsylvania.  In 
1795,  while 'temporarily  in  Baltimore,  she 
wrote  The  Standard  of  Liberty,  a  poetical 
address  to  the  armies  of  the  United  States, 
which  was  recited  from  the  stage  by  Mrs. 
Whiilock,  one  of  the  most  accomplished  ac 
tresses  of  the  day,  before  all  the  uniformed 
companies  of  the  city,  in  full  dress.  In  1796 
she  wras  engaged  at  the  Federal-street  theatre 
in  Boston,  where,  at  the  end  of  a  season,  she 
closed  her  histrionic  career,  by  appearing  at 
her  benefit,  in  her  own  comedy  of  The  Amer 
icans  in  England. 

She  now  opened  a  school  for  young  wo 
men,  which  soon  became  very  popular,  so  that 
it  was  thronged  from  the  West  Indies,  the 
British  provinces,  and  all  the  states  of  the 
Union.  It  was  continued  at  Medford,  New 
ton,  and  Boston,  many  years,  with  uniform 
success.  But  the  business  of  instruction  did 
not  engross  her  attention,  since  she  found 
time  to  compile  a  Dictionary  and  several 
other  school  books,  and  to  write  Reuben 
and  Rachel,  an  American  novel ;  Biblical 
Dialogues,  a  work  evincing  considerable  re 
search  and  reflection,  and  a  volume  of  poems, 
and  for  two  years  to  sustain  a  weekly  ga 
zette  chiefly  by  her  own  contributions.  She 
died  in  Boston,  on  the  second  of  March,  1824, 
in  the  sixty-second  year  of  her  age. 

Mrs.  Rowson  translated  several  of  the  oaes 
of  Horace  and  the  tenth  Eclogue  of  Virgil, 
and  she  wrote  many  original  songs  and  other 
short  pieces,  of  which  the  most  ambiticUo 
was  an  irregular  poem  On  the  Birth  of  Ge 
nius,  whicn  was  once  much  admired.  On  ly 
a  few  of  her  -songs  are  now  remembered, 
and  these  less  for  any  poetical  qualities  than 
for  a  certain  social  and  patriotic  spirit.  Ilei 
"  America,  Commerce,  and  Freedom,"  is 
one  of  our  few  national  songs.  It  would  not 
dishonor  a  Dibdin,  but  it  bears  no  marks  o* 
a  feminine  genius. 


SUSANNAH   ROWSON. 


AMERICA,  COMMERCE,  AND  FREEDOM. 

How  blest  a  life  a  sailor  leads, 

From  clime  to  clime  still  ranging ; 
For  as  the  calm  the  storm  succeeds, 
The  scene  delights  by  changing! 
When  tempests  howl  along  the  main, 

Some  object  will  remind  us, 
And  cheer  with  hopes  to  meet  again 

Those  friends  we  've  left  behind  us. 
Then,  under  snug  sail,  we  laugh  at  the  gale, 

And  though  landsmen  look  pale,  never  heed  'em ; 
But  to-;s  oiF  a  glass  to  a  favorite  lass, 
To  America,  commerce,  and  freedom ! 

And  when  arrived  in  sight  of  land, 

Or  safe  in  port  rejoicing, 
Our  ship  we  moor,  our  sails  we  hand, 

Whilst  out  the  boat  is  hoisting. 
With  eager  haste  the  shore  we  reach, 

Our  friends  delighted  greet  us ; 
And,  tripping  lightly  o'er  the  beach, 

The  pretty  lasses  meet  us. 
When  the  full-flowing  bowl  has  enlivened  the  soul, 

To  foot  it  we  merrily  lead  'em, 
And  each  bonny  lass  will  drink  off  a  glass 
To  America,  commerce,  and  freedom ! 

Our  cargo  sold,  the  chink  we  share, 

And  gladly  we  receive  it ; 
And  if  we  meet  a  brother  tar 

Who  wants,  we  freely  give  it. 
No  freeborn  sailor  yet  had  store, 
But  cheerfully  would  lend  it; 
And  when  'tis  gone,  to  sea  for  more — 

We  earn  it  but  to  spend  it. 

Then  drink  round,  my  boys,  'tis  the  first  of  our  joys 
To  relieve  the  distressed,  clothe  and  feed  'em : 
Tis  a  task  which  we  share  with  the  brave  and  the  fair 
In  this  land  of  commerce  and  freedom ! 


KISS  THE  BRIM,  AND  BID  IT  PASS. 

WHEX  Columbia's  shores,  receding, 

Lessen  to  the  gazing  eye, 
Cape  nor  island  intervening 

Break  th'  expanse  of  sea  and  sky ; 
When  the  evening  shades,  descending, 

Shed  a  softness  o'er  the  mind, 
When  the  yearning  heart  will  wander 

To  the  circle  left  behind — 

Ah,  then  to  Friendship  fill  the  glass, 
Kiss  the  brim,  and  bid  it  pass. 

When,  the  social  board  surrounding, 

At  the  evening's  slight  repast, 
Often  will  our  bosoms  tremble 

As  we  listen  to  the  blast ; 
( i a/ing  on  the  moon's  pale  lustre, 

Fervent  shall  our  prayers  arise 
For  thy  peace,  thy  health,  thy  safety, 

Unto  Him  who  formed  the  skies  : 
To  Friendship  oft  we'll  fill  the  glass, 
K'f«f  me  brim,  and  bid  it  pass. 


When  in  India's  sultry  climate, 

Mid  the  burning  torrid  zone, 
Will  not  oft  thy  fancy  wander 

From  her  bowers  to  thine  own  1 
WThen,  her  richest  fruits  partaking, 

Thy  unvitiated  taste 
Oft  shall  sigh  for  dear  Columbia, 

And  her  frugal,  neat  repast: 

Ah,  then  to  Friendship  fill  the  glass, 
Kiss  the  brim,  and  bid  it  pass ! 

When  the  gentle  eastern  breezes 

Fill  the  homebound  vessel's  sails, 
Undulating  soft  the  ocean, 

Oh,  propitious  be  the  gales ! 
Then,  when  every  danger's  over, 

Rapture  shall  each  heart  expand  ; 
Tears  of  unmixed  joy  shall  bid  thee 

Welcome  to  thy  native  land : 

To  Friendship,  then,  we'll  fill  the  glass, 
Kiss  the  brim,  and  bid  it  pass. 


THANKSGIVING. 

AuTtTMW,  receding,  throws  aside 

Her  robe  of  many  a  varied  dye, 
And  Winter  in  majestic  pride 

Advances  in  the  lowering-  sky. 
The  laborer  in  his  granary  stores 

The  golden  sheaves  all  safe  from  spoil, 
While  from  her  horn  gay  Plenty  pours 

Her  treasures  to  reward  his  toil. 
To  solemn  temples  let  us  now  repair, 
And  bow  in  grateful  adoration  there ; 
Bid  the  full  strain  in  hallelujahs  rise, 
To  waft  the  sacred  incense  to  the  skies. 

Now  the  hospitable  board 

Groans  beneath  the  rich  repast — 
All  that  luxury  can  afford 

Grateful  to  the  eye  or  taste ; 
While  the  orchard's  sparkling  juice 

And  the  vintage  join  their  powers; 
All  that  nature  can  produce, 

Bounteous  Heaven  bids  be  ours. 
Let  us  give  thanks :  Yes,  yes,  be  sure, 
Send  for  the  widow  and  the  orphan  poor ; 
Give  them  wherewith  to  purchase  clothes  and  food 
This  the  best  way  to  prove  our  gratitude. 

On  the  hearth  high  flames  the  fire, 
Sparkling  tapers  lend  their  light, 
Wit  and  Genius  now  aspire 

On  Fancy's  gay  and  rapid  flight ; 
Now  the  viol's  sprightly  lay, 

As  the  moments  light  advance, 
Bids  us  revel,  sport,  and  play, 

Raise  the  song,  or  lead  the  dance. 
Come,  sportive  Love,  and  sacred  Friendship  come, 
Help  us  to  celebrate  our  harvest  home ; 
In  vain  the  year  its  annual  tribute  pours,   [hours. 
Unless  you  grace  the  scene,  and  lead  the  laughing 


MARGARETTA    V.    FAUGERES. 

(Born  1771-Died  18)1). 


MARGARETTA  V.  BLEECKER  was  a  daugh 
ter  of  Mrs.  Anne  Eliza  Bleecker,  of  whose 
life  and  writings  a  notice  has  been  given  in 
the  preceding  pages.*  She  was  born  at  Tom- 
hanick  in  1771,  and  was  about  twelve  years 
of  age  when  her  mother  died.  Her  educa 
tion,  which  had  thus  far  been  conducted  with 
care  and  judgment,  was  continued  under  the 
best  teachers  of  New  York,  where  she  made 
her  appearance  in  society,  soon  after  the  close 
of  the  Revolution,  as  a  highly  accomplished 
girl,  of  the  best  connexions,  and  a  liberal  for 
tune.  Her  home  was  thronged  with  suitors, 
but,  with  a  perversity  which  is  often  paral 
leled,  she  preferred  the  least  deserving,  one 
Dr.  Peter  Faugeres,  an  adventurer  who  shone 
in  drawing  rooms  in  the  flimsy  and  worn-cut 
costume  of  French  infidelity,  and  him,  in  op 
position  to  the  wishes  of  her  faiher,  she  mar 
ried.  Mr.  Bleecker  died  in  1795,  and  Fau- 
geres  squandered  the  estate,  and  treated  his 
wife  in  a  scandalous  manner,  until  1798,  when 
she  was  relieved  of  his  presence  by  the  yellow 
fever.  It  seems,  from  some  allusions  in  her 
poems  to  the  wretch  Thomas  Pamelas  well 
as  from  her  admiration  of  Faugeres,  that  she 
had  a  deeper  sympathy  with  the  vulgar  skep 
ticism  of  the  time  than  was  possible  fora 
woman  who  united  much  capacity  with  vir 
tue  ;  bu  observation  of  its  tendencies  had 
perhaps  led  her  to  reflection,  and  she  now 
came  to  believe  that  an  inquiring  and  trust 
ing  spirit  is  quite  as  profound  as  one  that 
doubts  and  despises.  She  became  a  teacher 
in  an  academy  at  New  Brunswick,  but  her 
constitution  was  broken  and  her  mind  enfee 
bled  by  her  misfortunes,  and  she  died,  in  the 
twenty-ninth  year  of  her  age,  in  Brooklyn, 
on  the  ninth  of  January,  1801. 

Mrs.  Faugeres  in  1793  edited  the  posthu 
mous  works  of  her  mother,  to  which  she  ap 
pended  several  of  her  own  compositions,  in 
prose  and  verse.  In  1795  she  published 
Belisarius,  a  tragedy,  in  five  acts,  which  is 
spoken  of  in  the  preface  as  her  "  first  dramat 
ic  performance,"  as  if  she  contemplated  the 

*Ante,  p.  28. 


devotion  of  her  attention  to  this  kind  of  liter 
ature  ;  and  in  the  third  number  of  the  New 
York  Weekly  Magazine,  for  the  same  year, 
is  an  extract  from  a  MS.  comedy  by  her,  but 
this  appears  never  to  have  been  printed. 

Belisarius*  was  evidently  suggested  by  the 
fine  romance  of  Marmontel,  but  Mrs.  Fau 
geres  combines  the  tradition  of  the  putting 
out  of  the  eyes  of  the  great  Byzantine,  with 
that  of  Theophanes  and  Malala,  that  after  a 
short  imprisonment  he  was  restored  to  his 
honors.  Though  unsuited  to  the  stage,  this 
tragedy  has  considerable  merit,  and  is  much 
superior  to  the  earlier  compositions  of  the 
author.  The  style  is  generally  dignified  and 
correct,  and  free  from  the  extravagant  decla 
mation  into  which  the  subject  would  have 
seduced  a  writer  of  less  taste  and  judgment. 
We  have  but  a  glimpse  of  the  private  in 
trigues  that  are  revealed  in  the  secret  his 
tory  by  Procopius.  Some  time  after  the  mar 
riage  of  Belisarius  to  Antonina,  they  are  re 
ferred  to  in  conversation  between  Arsaces, 
a  Bulgarian  noble,  and  Julia,  the  niece  of 
Justinian,  of  whom  Belisarius  had  been  a 
lover : 

Arsaces.  My  darling  Julia,  drop  these  vain  regrets, 
For  B disarms  is  no  longer  thine  : 
Is  he  not  wedded  1 

Julia.  Too  sure  he  is,  and  therefore  I  will  weep, 
For  he  was  mine,  and  naught  but  wicked  craft 
E'er  rent  him  from  my  bosom.     Oh,  my  love! 
Oh,  my  betrothed  love !  how  are  we  severed ! 
Cursed  be  the  monsters  of  iniquity 
Who  thus  have  burst  the  tenderest  bonds  asunder 
Affection  ever  knew  !     Thou  art  betrayed  : 
Dungeons,  and  poverty,  and  shame,  are  thine 
And  everlasting  blindness ;  while  I,  deserted, 

Roam  round  the  world 

In  the  second  act  Belisarius  appears,  accord 
ing  to  the  narrative  of  Tzetzes,  in  the  char- 

*  Of  BelisHrius  there  were  probably  printed  only  enough 
copies  for  subscriber.*,  and  it  is  now  anioiiu  the  rarest  ot 
American  books.  While  making  a  collection  of  nearly 
eteht  hundred  volumes  of  pot- try  and  verses  written  in 
this  country.  I  never  saw  it :  mid  Unnlap,  who  was  a  very 
indHStrJnu- collector  of  plays,  alludes  to  it  in  his  History 
of  the  American  Theatre,  as  a  work  which  had  eluclec 
his  research.  It  is  not  in  any  of  our  public  libraries— 
which  indeed,  are  amoni.'  the  last  places  to  be  examined 
for  American  literature— and  the  only  copy  I  have  «een— 
the  one  now  before  me— is  from  the  curious  collecr-.a  ct 
Henry  A.  Brady,  Esq. 


36 


MARGARETTA    V.   FAUGERES. 


aeter  of  a  beggar,  and  in  wandering  through 
the  country  he  is  thus  introduced  to  Gelimer, 
the  captive  king  of  Carthage,  whom  he  him 
self  had  long  before  brought  in  triumph  to 
Byzantium  : 

Gehnier,  at  daybreak,  in  a  gar.lf-n.— Enter  Amala,  Ins  wife. 

A  mala.  T  is  yet  too  soon  to  labor,  love ;  come,  sit. 
This  air  Mows  fresh,  and  those  sweet,  bending  flow- 
Heavy  with  dew,  shed  such  a  fragrance  round,  [ers, 
And  so  melodious  sings  the  early  lark, 
'T  would  be  a  pity  not  to  enjoy  the  hour. 
Come,  sit  upon  this  sod.     See,  the  mom  breaks 
In  streams  of  quivering  light  upon  the  hills, 
And  the  loose  clouds,  in  changeful  colors  gay, 
Now  tinged  with  crimson,  and  with  amber  now, 
Sail  slow  along  the  brightening  horizon. 

Gelimer.  Yes,  my  Amala,  't  is  a  lovely  morn, 
And  might  inspire  me  with  these  calm  ideas, 
But  that  my  thoughts  are  dwelling  on  the  stranger, 
Who  claimed  your  hospitality,  last  night. 

You  said  he  was  a  soldier — old,  and  poor 

And  that  excites  compassion ;  for  I  grieve 
To  see  a  veteran,  who  has  spent  his  strength 
In  the  big  perils  of  uncertain  war, 
Far  from  his  home,  his  country,  and  his  friends ; 
Who  oft  has  slept  upon  the  frozen  earth, 
And  suffered  grievous  vvant....That  he,  whose  age 
Has  made  him  bald,  and  chilled  his  sickly  veins, 
And  rendered  him  quite  useless  to  himself, 
Should  be  turned  out  upon  the  world,  adrift, 
To  seek  a  scanty  sustenance  from  alms !.... 
'T  is  much  to  be  lamented. 

In  the  following  scene  the  degraded  chiefs 
recognise  each  other,  and  Belisarius  relates 
the  story  of  his  barbarous  punishment: 

Bel.  When  I  first  heard  it  my  full  heart  beat  slow, 
My  wonted  fortitude  forsook  me;  and  when  I  thought 
It  was  Juxtinian.  that  urged  the  blow, 
Casting  my  hopeless  eyes  to  yon  bright  heaven, 
As  'twere  to  take  a  lasting  leave  of  light, 
lining  my  hands,  and  bathed  me  in  my  tears. 
The  executioner,  touched  with  my  sorrows, 
Sank  on  the  ground  and  cried,  «  You  are  undone  ! 
\\  retched  old  man.  why  does  your  heart  not  break, 
And  Lrivc  you  a  release  from  such  a  wo!" 
But  it  is  past,  and,  tranquil  as  the  flood 
When  gently  kissed  by  Twilight's  softliest  gale, 
My  spirit  rests,  and  scarce  consents  to  weep 
When  Memory  would  the  piteous  tale  recall. 

That  most  striking  virtue  of  Belisarius, 
which  appeared  to  Gibbon  "above  or  below 
the  character  i.f  a  man,"  is  happily  illustra 
ted,  though  by  incidents  that  would  seem 
very  extraordinary  were  the  historians  upon 
ibis  point  less  explicit  and  particular.  The 
Prince  i.-f  Bulgaria  en<Wvors  to  enlist  the 
blind  old  -eneral  against  the  By/aiitinrs, 
and  causes  his  proposals  to  be  accompanied 
with  a  flourish  of  martial  instruments,  to 
•enow  in  him 

— the  memory  of  past  scenes, 


When  his  proud  steed,  champing  his  golden  bit, 
fiore  him  o'er  heaps  of  slaughtered  enemies, 
While  vanquished  thousands  at  his  presence  knelt 
And  kissed  the  dust  o'er  which  the  conqueror  rode. 

Belisarius  says,  declining  — 

Shall  I  now 

Sully  the  glories  of  a  long  life's  toil, 
And  justify  the  cruelty  of  my  foes  1 

And  then — 

— Music,  such  as  lulls  my  wayward  cares, 
Is  often  heard  within  the  peasant's  hamlet, 
What  time  gray  Twilight  veils  the  eastern  sky, 
When  the  blithe  maiden  carols  rustic  songs 
To  soothe  the  infirmities  of  peevish  age, 
Or,  when  the  moon  shines  on  the  dew-gemm'd  plain, 
Attunes  her  voice  to  chant  some  lightsome  air 
For  those  who  dance  upon  the  tufted  green. 
Such  are  the  strains  I  love,  and  such  as  float 
On  the  cool  gale  from  a  far  mountain's  side, 
Where  some  lc:ie  shepherd  fills  his  simple  pipe, 
Calling  the  echoes  from  their  dewy  beds, 
To  chase  mute  sleep  away.     Ah  !  blessed  is  he 
If  bis  choice  melody  be  ne'er  disturbed 
By  the  death-breathing  trumpet's  woful  tone. 

Prince.  If  thou  wert  ever  thus  averse  to  war, 
General,  why  didst  thou  fight  ] 

Bel.  To  purchase  peace,  not  to  extend  dominion. 
Peace  was  the  crown  of  conquest. 

The  heroine  of  the  piece  is  the  empress  The- 
odosia,  who  in  the  third  act  inquires  of  her 
creature  Barsames  the  result  of  his  last  ef 
forts  to  detect  a  conspiracy  : 

Theouosia.  Did  you  see  Phsedrus  ] 

Barsames.  Yes  :  but  he  did  not  know  me. 
He  sat  upon  a  heap  of  mouldering  bones 
With  his  shrunk  hands,  thus,  folded  on  his  breast ; 
And  his  sunk  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground 
Half  shut,  and  o'er  his  bosom  streamed  his  beard, 
Hoary  and  long.     I  twice  accosted  him 
Ere  he  regarded  me ;  then,  looking  up, 
He  eyed  me  with  a  vague  and  senseless  gaze, 
And  heaving  a  most  lamentable  sigh, 
Dropped  his  pale  face  upon  his  breast  again. 

T/teo.  I'  11  go  myself,  this  moment,  and  give  ordera 
For  his  removal  to  some  cheerful  place, 
Where  kind  attendance,  and  my  best  physician, 

May  woo  his  scattered  senses  back  again 

When  Reason  rises  cloudless  in  his  brain, 
Embracing  courteous  Hope,  then  I  will  go 

And  break  the  vain  enchantment 

This  will  be  sweet  revenge !     Then  let  him  try 
If  tlie  bright  wit  that  jeered  a  woman's  foibles 
Will  light  the  dungeon  where  her  fury  dwells ! 

After  the  publication  of  Belisarius,  Mrs. 
Failures  was  an  occasional  contributor  to 
the  New  York  Monthly  Magazine,  and  some 
other  periodicals.  She  appears  to  have  been 
a  favorite  among  her  literary  acquaintances, 
and  is  frequently  referred  'to  in  their  pub 
lished  poems  in  terms  of  sympathy  and  ad 
miration. 


MARGARETTA    V.   FAUGERES. 


THE  HUDSON. 

FROM  A  POE.M  PUBLISHED  IN  1793. 

NILE'S  beauteous  waves  and  Tiber's  swelling  tide 

Have  been  recorded  by  the  hand  of  Fame, 
A  ad  various  floods,  which  through  earth's  channels 
glide, 

From  some  enraptured  bard  have  gained  a  name : 
E'en  Thames  and  Wye  have  been  the  poet's  theme, 

And  to  their  charms  has  many  a  harp  been  strung, 
Whilst,  oh  !  hoar  Genius  of  old  Hudson's  stream, 

Thy  mighty  river  never  has  been  sung ! 
Say,  shall  a  female  string  her  trembling  lyre, 

And  to  thy  praise  devote  the  adventurous  song  1 
Fired  with  the  theme,  her  genius  shall  aspire, 

And  the  notes  sweeten  as  they  float  along 

Through  many  a  blooming  wild  and  woodland  green 

The  Hudson's  sleeping  waters  winding  stray  ; 
Now  mongst  the  hills  its  silvery  waves  are  seen, 

Through  arching  willows  now  they  steal  away : 
Now  more  majestic  rolls  the  ample  tide, 

Tall  waving  elms  its  clovery  borders  shade, 
And  many  a  stately  dome,  in  ancient  pride 

And  hoary  grandeur,  there  exalts  its  head. 
There  trace  the  marks  of  Culture's  sunburnt  hand, 

The  honeyed  buckwheat's  clustering  blossoms 

view — 
Dripping  rich  odors,  mark  the  beard-grain  bland, 

The  loaded  orchard,  and  the  flax-field  blue ; 
The  grassy  hill,  the  quivering  poplar  grove, 

The  copse  of  hazel,  and  the  tufted  bank, 
The  long  green  valley  where  the  white  flocks  rove, 

The  jutting  rock,  o'erhung  with  ivy  dank  : 
The  tall  pines  waving  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

Whose  lofty  spires  catch  day's  last  lingering  beam ; 

The  bending  willow  weeping  o'er  the  stream, 
The  brook's  soft  gurglings,  and  the  garden's  glow. 

Low  sunk  between  the  Alleganian  hills, 

For  many  a  league  the  sullen  waters  glide, 

And  the  deep  murmur  of  the  crowded  tide 
With  pleasing  awe  the  wondering  voyager  fills. 
On  the  green  summit  of  yon  lofty  clift 

A  peaceful  runnel  gurgles  clear  and  slow, 
Then  down  the  craggy  steep-side  dashing  swift, 

Tumultuous  falls  in  the  white  surge  below. 
Here  spreads  a  clovery  lawn  its  verdure  far, 

Beyond  it  mountains  vast  their  forests  rear, 
And  long  ere  Day  hath  left  her  burnished  car, 

The  dews  of  night  have  shed  their  odors  there. 
There  hangs  a  lowering  rock  across  the  deep ; 

Hoarse  roar  the  waves  its  broken  base  around ; 
Through  its  dark  caverns  noisy  whirlwinds  sweep, 

While  Horror  startles  at  the  fearful  sound. 
The  shivering,  sails  that  cut  the  fluttering  breeze, 

Glide   through  these  winding   rocks  with    airy 

sweep, 
Beneath  the  cooling  glooms  of  waving  tre<js, 

And  sloping  pastures  specked  with  fleecy  sheep. 


VERSES 

ADDRESSED   TO  THF    MK.M  I!  F.RS   OF  THE    CT.VCISN  \  1 1 
OF  THE  STATE  OF  NEW  YORK  ON  THE  4TH  OF  JULY 

COME,  round  Freedom's  sacred  shrine, 
Flowery  garlands  let  us  twine ; 
And  while  we  our  tribute  bring, 
Grateful  paeans  let  us  sing : 
Sons  of  Freedom,  join  the  lay — 
'Tis  Columbia's  natal  day  ! 

Banish  all  the  plagues  of  life, 
Fretful  Care  and  restless  Strife , 
Let  the  memory  of  your  woes 
Sink  this  day  in  sweet  repose ; 
Even  let  Grief  itself  be  gay 
On  Columbia's  na:al  day. 

Late  a  despot's  cruel  hand 
Sent  oppression  through  your  land ; 
Piteous  plaints  and  tearful  moan 
Found  not  access  to  his  throne ; 
Or  if  heard,  the  poor,. forlorn, 
Met  but  with  reproach  and  scorn. 

Paine,  with  eager  virtue,  then 
Snatched  from  Truth  her  diamond  pen — 
Bade  the  slaves  of  tyranny 
Spurn  their  bonds,  and  dare  be  free. 
Glad  they  burst  their  chains  away : 
'Twas  Columbia's  natal  day  ! 

Vengeance,  who  had  slept  too  long, 
Waked  to  vindicate  our  wrong ; 
Led  her  veterans  to  the  field, 
Sworn  to  perish  ere  to  yield : 
Weeping  Memory  yet  can  tell 
How  they  fought  and  how  they  fell ! 

Lured  by  virtuous  Washington — 
Liberty's  most  favored  son — 
Victory  gave  your  sword  a  sheath, 
Binding  on  your  brows  a  wreath 
Which  can  never  know  decay 
While  you  hail  this  blissful  day. 

Ever  be  its  name  revered  ; 

Let  the  shouts  of  joy  be  heard 

From  where  Hampshire's  bleak  winds  blow, 

Down  to  Georgia's  fervid  glow ; 

Let  them  all  in  this  agree  : 

"  Hail  the  day  which  made  us  free  !" 

Bond  your  eyes  toward  that  shore 
Where  Bellona's  thunders  roar : 
There  your  Gallic  brethren  see 
Struggling,  bleeding  to  be  free  ! 
Oh  !  unite  your  prayers  that  they 
May  soon  announce  their  natal  day. 

O  thou  Power  !  to  whom  we  owe 
All  the  blessings  that  we  kuow, 
Strengthen  thou  our  rising  youth, 
Teach  them  wisdom,  virtue,  truth — 
That  when  we  are  sunk  in  clay, 
They  may  keep  this  glorious  day  ! 


ELIZA    TOWN  SEND. 


(Born  1789-Died  1854). 


ELIZA  TOWNSEND,  descended  from  a  stock 
that  for  two  centuries  lias  occupied  a  distin 
guished  and  honorable  position  in  American 
society,  was  the  first  native  poet  of  her  sex 
whose  writings  commanded  the  applause  of 
judicious  critics; — the  first  whose  poems 
evinced  any  real  inspiration,  or  rose  from 
the  merely  mechanical  into  the  domain  of 
art.  The  late  Mr.  Nicholas  Biddle,  whose 
judgment  in  literature  was  frequently  illus 
trated  by  the  most  admirable  criticisms,  once 
mentioned  to  me  that  a  pri/e  ode  which  Miss 
Towrfsend  wrote  for  the  Port  Folio  while  he 
himself  was  editor  of  that  miscellany,  soon 
after  the  death  of  Dennie,  was  in  his  opinion 
the  finest  poem  of  its  kind  which  at  that 
time  had  been  written  in  ihis  country,  and 
many  of  her  other  pieces  received  the  best 
approval  of  the  period,  but,  as  she  kept  her 
authorship  a  secret,  without  securing  for  her 
any  personal  reputation. 

She  was  born  in  Boston,  and  her  youth 
was  passed  in  the  troubled  times  which  suc 
ceeded  the  Revolution,  when  our  own  coun 
try  was  distracted  by  the  strifes  of  parties, 
and  Europe  was  convulsed  with  the  tumult 
uous  overthrows  of  governments  whose  sub 
jects  had  caught  from  us  the  spirit  of  liberty. 
She  sympathized  with  the  feelings  which 
weie  popular  in  New  England,  in  regard 
both  to  our  own  and  to  foreign  affairs,  as  is 
shown  by  her  Occasional  Ode,  written  in  June, 
1809,  in  which  Napoleon  is  denounced- with 
a  vehemence  mid  power  which  remind  us  of 
the  celebrated  ode  of  Soul  hey,  written  nearly 
five  years  afterward,  during  the  negotiations 
of  181  1.  This  poem  was  first  printed  in  the 
seventh  volume  of  the  Monthly  Anthology, 
and  though  it  hears  the  marks  of  hash  com 
position,  in  some  minute  defects,  it  is  alto- ' 
gether  a  line  performance.  The  splendid  ge 
nius  of  Napoleon  was  not  yet  revealed  in  all 
its  magnificence  even  to  those  who  were  the 
immediate  instruments  of  his  will,  but  to  all 
mankind  his  name  \\  a>  a  word  of  division, 
and  in  this  country  those  whose  opinions 
were  fruits  of  anything  else  th/m  passion 
were  commonly  led  by  a  conser  'alive  spirit 


to  distrusl  the  man  and  to  credit  the  worst 
views  of  his  actions.  This  was  most  true 
in  Boston,  where,  at  the  beginning  of  Mr. 
Madison's  administration,  Miss  Townsend's 
ode  was  probably  deemed  noi  less  just  than 
poetical. 

Among  the  pieces  which  she  published 
about  this  time  was  Another  Castle  in  the 
Air,  suggested  by  Professor  Frisbie's  agree 
able  poem  referred  to  in  its  title  ;  Stanzas 
commemorative  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown ; 
Lines  on  the  Burning  of  the  Richmond  The 
atre  ;  and  a  poem  to  Southey,  upon  the  ap 
pearance  of  his  Curse  of  Kehama.  At  a  later 
period  she  published  several  poems  of  a  more 
religious  cast,  by  one  of  which,  The  Incom 
prehensibility  of  God,  she  is  best  known.  Of 
this,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cheever  remarks,  that  "  it 
is  equal  in  grandeur  to  the  Thanatopsis  of 
Bryant,"  and  that  "  it  will  not  suffer  by  com 
parison  with  the  most  sublime  pieces  of 
Wordsworth  or  of  Coleridge." 

Miss  Townsend  has  not  written,  at  least 
for  the  public,  in  many  years,  and  there  has 
been  no  collection  of  the  poems  with  which, 
in  the  earlier  part  of  this  cenlury,  she  en 
riched  The  Monthly  Anthology,  The  Port 
Folio,  The  Unitarian  Miscellany,  and  other 
periodicals  which  were  then  supported  by  the 
contributions  of  the  youthful  Adams.  Allston. 
Buckminster,  Webster,  Ticknor,  Greenwood, 
Edward  Channing,  Alexander  Everett,  and 
others  of  whose  early  hopes  the  fulfilment  is 
written  in  our  intellectual  history.  Such  a 
collection  would  undoubtedly  be  well  re 
ceived. 

There  is  a  religious  and  poetical  dignity, 
with  all  the  evidences  of  a  fine  and  richly- 
cultivated  understanding,  in  most  of  the  po 
ems  of  Miss  Townsend,  which  entitle  her 
to  be  ranked  among  the  distinguished  liter 
ary  women  who  were  her  contemporaries, 
and  in  advance  of  all  who  in  her  own  coun 
try  preceded  her. 

She  is  still  living,  in  a  secluded  manner, 
with  her  sister,  also  maiden,  in  the  old  fam 
ily  mansion  in  Boston.  They  are  the  last  of 
their  race. 

38 


ELIZA   TOWNSEND. 


AN  OCCASIONAL   ODE. 

WRITTEN  IN  JUNE,  1809 

FIRST  of  all  created  things, 

God's  eldest  born,  oh  tell  me,  Time ! 
E'er  since  within  that  car  of  thine, 
Drawn  by  those  steeds,  whose  speed  divine, 
Through  every  state  and  every  clime, 

Nor  pause  nor  rest  has  known, 
Mongst  all  the  scenes  long  since  gone  by 
Since  first  thou  opedst  thy  closeless  eye, 
Did  its  scared  glances  ever  rest 
Upon  a  vision  so  unblest, 
So  fearful,  as  our  own  1 
If  thus  thou  start'st  in  wild  affright 
At  what  thyself  hast  brought  to  light, 
Oh  yet  relent !  nor  still  unclose 
New  volumes  vast  of  human  woes. 
Thy  bright  and  bounteous  brother,  yonder  Sun, 
Whose  course  coeval  still  with  thine  doth  run, 
Sickening  at  the  sights  unholy, 
Frightful  crime,  and  frantic  folly, 
By  thee,  presumptuous !  with  delight 
Forced  upon  his  awful  sight, 
Abandons  half  his  regal  right, 
And  yields  the  hated  world  to  night. 
And  even  when  through  the  honored  day 
He  still  benignly  deigns  to  sway, 
High  o'er  the  horizon  prints  his  burnished  tread, 
Oft  calls  his  clouds, 
With  sable  shrouds, 
To  hide  his  glorious  head ! 
And  Luna,  of  yet  purer  view, 
His  sister  and  his  regent  too, 
Beneath  whose  mild  and  sacred  reign 
Thou  darest  display  thy  deeds  profane, 
Pale  and  appalled,  has  frowned  her  fears, 
Or  veiled  her  brightness  in  her  tears ; 
While  all  her  starry  court,  attendant  near, 
Only  glance,  and  disappear. 
But  thou,  relentless !  not  in  thee 
These  horrors  wake  humanity  : 
Though  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  combined, 
Ne'er  did  it  change  thy  fatal  mind, 
Nor  e'er  thy  wayward  steps  retrace, 
Nor  e'er  restrain  thy  coursers'  race, 
Nor  e'er  efface  the  blood  thou'dst  shed, 
Nor  raise  to  life  the  murdered  dead. 
Is't  not  enough,  thou  spoiler,  tell ! 
That,  subject  to  thy  stern  behest, 

The  might  of  ancient  empire  fell, 
And  sunk  to  drear  and  endless  rest  7 
Fallen  is  the  Roman  eagle's  flight, 
The  Grecian  glory  sunk  in  night, 
And  prostrate  arts  and  arms  no  more  withstand  : 
Those  own  thy  Vandal  flame  and  these  thy  conq'ring 
Then  be  Destruction's  sable  banner  furled,    [hand. 
Nor  wave  its  shadows  o'er  the  modern  world ! 
In  vain  the  prayer.     Still  opens  wide, 
Renewed,  each  former  tragic  scene 
Of  Time's  dark  drama ;  while  'beside 
Grief  and  Despair  their  vigils  keep, 
And  Memory  only  lives  to  weep 

The  mouldering  dust  of  what  has  been. 


How  nameless  now  the  once-famed  earth, 
That  gave  to  Kosciuszko  birth — • 
The  pillared  realm  that  proudly  stood, 
Propped  by  his  worth,  cemented  by  his  blood! 

As  towers  the  lion  of  the  wood 
O'er  all  surrounding  living  things, 
So,  mid  the  herd  of  vulgar  kings, 

The  dauntless  Dalecarlian  stood. 
"  Pillowed  by  flint,  by  damps  enclosed," 
Upon  the  mine's  cold  lap  reposed, 

Yet  firm  he  followed  Freedom's  plan; 
"  Dared  with  eternal  night  reside, 
And  threw  inclemency  aside,"  . 

Conqu'ror  of  nature  as  of  man ! 
And  earned  by  toils  unknown  before, 
Of  Blood  and  Death,  the  crown  he  wore. 
That  radiant  crown,  whose  flood  of  light 
Illumined  once  a  nation's  sight — 
Spirit  of  Vasa  !  this  its  doom  1 
Gleams  in  a  dungeon's  living  tomb ! 

Where'er  the  frightened  mind  can  fly, 
But  nearer  ruins  meet  her  eye. 

Ah  !  not  Arcadia's  pictured  scene 
Could  more  the  poet's  dream  engage, 

Nor  manners  more  befitting  seem 
The  vision  of  a  golden  age, 
Than  where  the  chamois  loved  to  roam 
Through  old  Helvetia's  rugged  home, 
Where  Uri's  echoes  loved  to  swell 
To  kindred  rocks  the  name  of  Tell, 
And  pastoral  girls  and  rustic  swains 
Were  simple  as  their  native  plains. 
Nor  mild  alone,  but  bold  the  mind, 
The  soldier  and  the  shepherd  joined — 
The  Roman  heraldry  restored, 
The  crook  was  quartered  with  the  sword. 
Their  seedtime  cheerful  labor  stored, 
Plenty  piled  their  vintage  board, 
Peace  loved,  their  daily  fold  to  keep, 
Contentment  tranquillized  their  sleep — 
Till  through  those  giant  Guards  of  Stone,* 
Where  Freedom  fixed  her  "  mountain-throne, 
Battle's  bloodhounds  forced  their  way 
And  made  the  human  flock  their  prey ! 

Is  it  Fact,  or  Fancy  tells, 

That  now  another  mandate 's  gone  ] 
Hark !  even  now  those  fated  wheels 

Roll  the  rapid  ruin  on ! 
Lo,  where  the  generous  and  the  good, 

The  heart  to  feel,  the  hand  to  dare : 
Iberia  pours  her  noblest  blood, 

Iberia  lifts  her  holiest  prayer  ! 
The  while  from  all  her  rocks  and  vales 

Her  peasant  bands  by  thousands  rise  . 
Their  altar  is  their  native  plains, 

Themselves  the  willing  sacrifice. 
While  UK,  the  «  strangest  birth  of  time, ' 
Red  with  gore,  arid  grim  with  crime, 
Whose  fate  more  prodigies  attend, 
And  in  whose  course  mire  terrors  blend, 
And  o'er  whose  birth  more  portents  lowei, 
Than  ever  crowned, 
In  lore  renowned, 

*  The  Alps. 


40 


ELIZA    TOWNSEND. 


The  Macedonian's  natal  hour! 

IS'ow  here,  now  there,  he  takes  his  stand, 

The  rtabiished  earth  his  footsteps  jar; 
Goads  l>  the  lii^ht  his  vassal  band, 
M  hile  ebbs  or  Hows,  at  his  command, 

The  torrent  of  the  war ! 

Could  the  hard,  whose  powers  suhlime 

Scaled  the  heights  of  epic  glory, 
\nd  rendered  in  immortal  rhyme 

Of  Rome's  disgrace  the  hlushing  story — 
Where,  formed  of  treason  and  of  woes, 
Pharsalia's  gory  genius  rose — 
Might  he  again 
Renew  the  strain 

That  once  his  truant  muse  had  charmed, 
Each  foreign  tone 

Unwaked  had  lain ; 
And  patriot  Spain 

And  Spain,  alone 
The  Spaniard's  patriot  heart  had  warmed ! 

Then  had  the  chords  proclaimed  no  more 
His  deeds,  his  death,  renowned  of  yore ; 
Who,*  when  each  lingering  hope  was  slain, 
And  Freedom  fought  with  Fate  in  vain, 
Lone  in  the  city,  and  reft  of  all, 
While  Usurpation  stormed  the  wall, 
The  tyrant's  entrance  scorned  to  see — 
But  died,  with  dying  Liberty. 

Those  chords  had  raised  the  local  strain ; 
That  hard  a  filial  flight  had  ta'en ; 
Forgot  all  else  :  The  ancient  past, 
Thick  in  Ohlivion's  mists  o'ercast, 
Or  past  and  present  both  combined 
Within  the  graspings  of  his  mind ; 
In  what  now  is,  viewed  what  hath  been ; 
The  dead  within  the  living  seen : 
Owned  transmigration's  strange  control, 
In  Spaniards  owned  the  Cato  soul ; 
And  wailed  in  tones  of  martial  grief 
The  valiant  band  and  hero  chief, 
Who  shared  in  Saragossa's  doom, 
^nd  made  their  Utica  their  tomb  ! 
Bright  be  the  amaranth  of  their  fame ! 
May  Palafox  a  Lucan  claim ! 
That  bard  no  more  had  filled  his  rhymes 
With  Cajsar's  greatness.  ( 'a>sar's  crimes: 
Another  Cajsur  waked  the  string, 
Alike  usurper,  traitor,  king. 
Another  (  \vsar  !    rashly  said  ! 
Forgive  the  falsehood,  mighty  shade! 
Molest  Julius'  treasons,  still  we  know 
The  faithful  friend,  the  generous  foe; 
And  even  enmityt  could  see 
Some  virtues  of  humanity. 

But  thou  !  by  what,  accurs'd  name 
Shall  we  denote  thy  features  here? 

In  records  of  infernal  fame 

When-  shall  we  find  thy  black  compeer  ? 

Then,  whose  perfidious  might  of  mind 

Nor  pity  moves  nor  faith  can  bind, 

*  '''In1  younger  Cnto. 

"  I  lis  enemies  confess 
'•'bw  virtues  of  humanity  are  Cigar's." — AD.  CATO. 


Whose  friends,  whose  followers  vainly  crave 
That  trust  which  should  reward  the  brave; 
Whose  foes,  mid  tenfold  war's  alarms, 
Dread  more  thy  treachery  than  thine  arms : 
The  Ishmaelite,  mid  deserts  bred, 
Who  robs  at  last  whom  first  he  fe.l, 
The  midnight  murderer  of  the  guest 
With  whom  lie  shared  the  morning's  feast — 
This  Arab  wretch,  compared  with  thee, 
Is  honor  and  humanity  ! 

And  shall  that  proud,  that  ancient  land, 

In  treasure  rich,  in  pageant  grand, 

Land  of  romance,  where  sprang  of  old 

Adventures  strange,  and  champions  bold, 

Of  holy  faith,  and  gallant  fight, 

And  bannered  hall,  and  armored  knight, 

And  tournament,  and  minstrelsy, 

The  native  land  of  chivalry ! — 

Shall  all  these  "  blushing  honors"  bloom 

For  Corsica's  detested  son  ] 

These  ancient  worthies  own  his  sway — 

The  upstart  fiend  of  yesterday  1 

Oh,  for  the  kingly  sword  and  shield 

That  once  the  victor  monarch  sped, 
What  time  from  Pavia's  trophied  Held 

The  royal  Frank  was  captive  led ! 
May  Charles's  laurels,  gained  for  you, 

Ne'er,  Spaniards,  on  your  brows  expire  • 
Nor  the  degenerate  sons  subdue 

The  conqu'rors  of  their  nobler  sire  ! 
None  higher  mid  the  zodiac  line 

Of  sovereigns  and  of  saints  you  claim, 
Than  fair  Castilia's  star  could  shine, 

And  brighten  down  the  sky  of  fame. 
Wise,  magnanimous,  refined, 
Accomplished  friend  of  human  kind, 
Wlio  first  the  Genoese  sail  unfurled — 
The  mighty  mother  of  an  infant  world, 
Illustrious  Isabel ! — shall  thine, 
Thy  children,  kneel  at  Gallia's  shrine] 

No  !  rise,  thou  venerated  shade, 

In  Heaven's  own  armor  bright  arrayed, 

Like  Pallas  to  her  Grecian  band ; 

Nerve  every  heart  and  every  hand ; 

Pervious  or  not  to  mortal  sight, 

Still  guard  thy  gallant  offspring's  right, 

Display  thine  aegis  from  afar, 

And  lend  a  thunderbolt  to  war ! 

God  of  battles  !  from  thy  throne, 
God  of  vengeance,  aid  their  cause  : 

Make  it,  conqu'ring  One,  thine  own ! 

'Tis  faith,  and  liberty,  and  laws.  * 

'T  is  for  these  they  pour  their  blood — 

The  cause  of  man.  the  cause  of  God! 

Not  now  avenge.  All-righteous  Power, 

Penivia's  red  and  ruined  hour: 

Nor  man-led  Montezuma's  head, 

^or  Gunfamo/iifs  burning  bed, 

"Nor  uive  the  guiltless  up  to  fate 

For  Cort  s'  crimes,  Pizarro's  hate! 

Thou,  who  beholdst,  enthroned  afar, 

Beyond  the  vision  of  the  keenest  star, 

Far  through  creation's  ample  round, 

The  universe's  utmost  bound  : 


ELIZA   TOWNSENL). 


•41 


Where  war  in  other  shape  appears, 
The  destined  plague  of  other  spheres, 
Other  Napoleons  arise 
To  stain  the  earth  and  cloud  the  skies ; 
And  other  realms  in  martial  ranks  succeed, 
Fight  like  Iberians,  like  Iberians  bleed. 
If  an  end  is  e'er  designed 
The  dire  destroyers  of  mankind, 
Oh,  be  some  seraphim  assigned 
To  breathe  it  to  the  patriot  mind. 
What  Brutus  bright  in  arms  arrayed, 
What  Corde  bares  the  righteous  blade ! 
Or,  if  the  vengeance,  not  our  own, 
Be  sacred  to  thine  arm  alone, 
When  shall  be  signed  the  blest  release 
And  wearied  worlds  refreshed  with  peace 
Oh,  could  the  muse  but  dare  to  rise 
Far  o'er  these  low  and  clouded  skies, 
Above  the  threefold  heavens  to  soar, 
And  in  thy  very  sight  implore  ! — 

In  vain while  angels  veil  them  there, 

While  Faith  half  fears  to  lift  her  prayer, 
The  glance  profane  shall  Fancy  dare  1 
Yet  there  around,  a  fearful  band, 
Thy  ministers  of  vengeance  stand :  . 

Lo,  at  thy  bidding  stalks  the  storm ; 
The  lightning  takes  a  local  form; 
The  floods  erect  their  hydra  head  ; 
The  pestilence  forsakes  his  bed ; 
Intolerable  light  appears  to  wait, 
And  far-off  darkness  stands  in  awful  state  ! 

For  thee,  O  Time  ! 

If  still  thou  speedst  thy  march  of  crime 
'Gainst  all  that's  beauteous  or  sublime, 
Still  provest  thyself  the  sworn  ally 
And  author  of  mortality — 

Infuriate  Earth,  too  long  supine, 
Whilst  demon-like  thou  lovedst  to  ride, 
Ending  every  work  beside, 

Shall  live  to  see  the  end  of  thine — 
Her  great  revenge  shall  see  ! 
By  prayer  shall  move  th'  Almighty  power 
To  antedate  that  final  hour 
When  the  Archangel  firm  shall  stand 
Upon  the  ocean  and  the  land — 
His  crown  a  radiant  rainbow  sphere, 
His  echoes  seven-fold  thunders  near — 
The  last  dread  fiat  to  proclaim : 
Shall  swear  by  His  tremendous  name, 
Who  formed  the  earth,  the  heavens  and  sea, 
TIME  shall  no  longer  be ! 


TO  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

VVHITTEN  IN  181-2. 

O  THOTT,  whom  we  have  known  so  long,  so  well, 
Thou  who  didst  hymn  the  Maid  of  Arc,  and  framed 
Of  Thalaba  the  wild  and  wondrous  song ; 
And  in  thy  later  tale  of  Times  of  Old, 
Remindest  us  of  our  own  patriarch  fathers, 
The  Madocs  of  their  age,  who  planted  here 
The  cross  of  Christ — and  liberty — and  peace  ! 
Minstrel  of  other  climes,  of  higher  hopes, 
And  holier  inspirations,  who  hast  ne'er 


From  her  high  birth  debased  the  goddess  Muse, 

To  grovel  in  the  dirt  of  earthly  things ; 

But  learned  to  mingle  with  her  human  tones 

Some  breathings  of  the  harmonies  of  heaven ! 

Joyful  to  meet  thee  yet  again,  we  hail 

Thy  last,  thy  loftiest  lay  ;  nor  chief  we  thank  thee 

For  every  form  of  beauty,  every  light 

Bestowed  by  brilliancy,  and  every  grace 

That  fancy  could  invent  and  taste  dispose. 

Or  that  creating,  consummating  power, 

Pervading  fervor,  and  mysterious  finish, 

That  something  occult,  indefinable. 

By  mortals  genius  named ;  the  parent  sun 

WThence  all  those  rays  proceed  ;  the  constant  foum 

To  feed  those  streams  of  mind ;  th'  informing  soul 

Whose  infl  lence  all  are  conscious  of,  but  none 

Could  e'er  describe ;  whose  fine  and  subtle  nature 

Seems  like  th'  aerial  forms,  which  legends  say 

Greeted  the  gifted  eye  of  saint  or  seer, 

Yet  ever  mocked  the  fond  inquirer's  aim 

To  scan  their  essence ! 

Such  alone,  we  greet  not. 
Since  genius  oft  (so  oft,  the  tale  is  trite) 
Employs  its  golden  art  to  varnish  vice, 
And  bleach  depravity,  till  it  shall  wear 
The  whiteness  of  the  robes  of  Innocence  t 
And  Fancy's  self  forsakes  her  truest  trade, 
The  lapidary  for  the  scavenger ; 
And  Taste,  regardful  of  but  half  her  province, 
Self-sentenced  to  a  partial  blindness,  turns 
Her  notice  from  the  semblance  of  perfection, 
To  fix  its  hoodwinked  gaze  on  faults  alone  — 
And  like  the  owl,  sees  only  in  the  night, 
Not  like  the  eagle,  soars  to  meet  the  day. 

Oblivion  to  all  such ! — For  thee,  we  joy 
Thou  hast  not  misapplied  the  gifts  of  God, 
Nor  yielded  up  thy  powers,  illustrious  captives, 
To  grace  the  triumph  of  licentious  Wit. 

Once  more  a  female  is  thy  chosen  theme ; 
And  Kailyal  lives  a  lesson  to  the  sex, 
How  more  than  woman's  loveliness  may  blend 
With  all  of  woman's  worth  ;  with  chastened  love, 
Magnanimous  exertion,  patient  piety, 
And  pure  intelligence.     Lo !  from  thy  wand 
Even  faith,  and  hope,  and  charity,  receive 
Something  more  filial  and  more  feminine. 

Proud  praise  enough  were  this ;  yet  is  there  more : 
That  neath  thy  splendid  Indian  canopy, 
By  fairy  fingers  woven,  of  gorgeous  threads, 
And  gold  and  precious  stones,  thou  hast  enwrapped 
Stupendous  themes  that  Truth  divine  revealed, 
And  answering  Reason  owned  :  naught  more  sub- 
Beauteous,  or  useful,  e'er  was  charactered      [lime, 
On  Hermes'  mystic  pillars— Egypt's  boast, 
And  more,  Pythagoras'  lesson,  when  the  ma/e 
Of  hieroglyphic  meaning  awed  the  world  ! 

Could  Music's  potent  charm,  as  some  believed 
Have  warmth  to  animate  the  slumbering  dead, 
And  « lap  them  in  Elysium,"  second  only 
To  that  which  shall  await  in  other  worlds, 
How  would  the  native  sons  of  ancient  India 
Unclose  on  thee  that  wondering,  dubious  eye, 
Where  admiration  wars  with  incredulity  ! 
Sons  of  the  morning  !  first-born  of  creation  . 
What  w  >uld  they  think  of  thee— thee,  one  of  us 


ELIZA    TO  vVNSEND. 


Sprung  fro :M  ;i  Liter  race,  on  whom  the  ends 

Of  ihisour  world  have  come, that thou  shouldstpen 

What  \ 'aranasi's*  venerable  towers 

In  all  their  pride  and  plenitude  of  power, 

Ere  Conquest  spread  her  bloody  banner  o'er  them, 

Or  Ruin  trod  upon  their  hallowed  walls, 

Could  ne'er  excel,  though  stored  with  ethic  wisdom, 

And  epic  minstrelsy,  and  sacred  lore ! 

For  there,  Philosophy's  Gantamif  first 

Taught  man  to  measure  mind ;  there  Valmic  hymn'd 

The  conquering  armsof  heaven-descended  Rama ; 

And  Calidasa  and  Vyasa  there, 

At  dillerent  periods,  but  with  powers  the  same, 

The  Sanscrit  song  prolonged — of  Nature's  works, 

Of  human  woes,  and  sacred  Chrishna's  ways. 

That  it  should  e'er  be  thine,  of  Europe  born, 

To  sing  of  Asia  !  that  Hindostan's  palms 

Should  bloom  on  Albion's  hills,  and  Brama'sVedasJ 

Meet  unconverted  eyes,  yet  unprofaned  ! 

And  those  same  brows  the  classic  Thames  had  bath'd 

Be  laved  by  holy  Ganges !  while  the  lotus, 

Fig-tree,  and  cusa,  of  its  healing  banks, 

Should,  with  their  derva's  vegetable  rubies, 

Be  painted  to  the  life  !.  ...Not  truer  touches, 

On  plane-tree  arch  above,  or  roseate  carpet, 

Spread  out  beneath,  were  ever  yet  employed 

When  their  own  vale  of  Cashmere  was  the  subject, 

Sketched  by  its  own  Abdalh,  i  ! 

He,  ||  too,  of  thine  own  land,  who  long  since  found 
A  refuge  in  his  final  sanctuary, 
From  regal  bigotry — could  thy  voice  reach  him,    • 
His  awful  shade  might  greet  thee  as  a  brother 
In  sentiment  and  song ;  that  epic  genius, 
From  whom  the  sight  of  outward  things  was  taken 
By  Heaven  in  mercy — that  the  orb  of  vision 
Might  totally  turn  inward — there  concentred 
On  objects  else  perhaps  invisible, 
Requiring  and  exhausting  all  its  rays; 
Who  (like  Tiresias,  of  prophetic  fame) 
Talked  with  Futurity  ! — that  patriot  poet, 
Poet  of  paradise,  whose  daring  eve 
Explored  "the  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze," 
"  But  blasted  with  excess  of  light,"  retired, 
And  left  to  thce  to  compass  other  heavens 
And  other  scenes  of  being ! — 

Bard  beloved 

Of  all  who  virtue  love — revered  by  all 
That  genius  reverence — SOUTHET  !  if  thou  art 
"Gentle  as  bard  beseems,"  and  if  thy  life 
Be  lovely  as  thy  lay,  thou  wilt  not  scorn 
This  rustic,  wreath;  albeit  'twas  entwined 
Beyond  the  western  waters,  where  I  sit 
And  bid  the  \\inds  that  wait  upon  their  surges, 
Bear  it  across  them  to  thine  island-home. 
Thou  wilt  not.  scorn  the  simple  leaves,  though  culled 
Fiom  that  traduced,  insulted  spot  of  earth, 
Of  which  thy  contumelious  brethren  oft 
Frame  fables,  full  as  monstrous  in  their  kind 
As  e'er  M  michausen  knew — with  all  his  falsehood, 
Guiltless  o"  all  his  wit!     Not  such  art  thou — 
Surely  thou  art  not,  if,  as  Rumor  tells, 
Thyself  in  the  high  hour  of  hopeful  youth 

*  The  folK'ur  of  Hcnaivs 

t  Supposed  iht:  earliest  founder  of  a  philosophic  school 

'  Sacred  books  of  the  Hindoos.  ||  .Milton. 


Had  cherished  nightly  visions  of  delight, 
And  day-dreams  of  desire,  that  lured  thee  on 
To  see  these  sister  states,  and  painted  to  thee 
Our  frowning  mountains  and  our  laughing  vales 
The  countless  beauties  of  our  varied  lakes, 
The  dim  recesses  of  our  endless  woods, 
Fit  haunt  for  sylvan  deities ;  and  whispered 
How  sweet  it  were  in  such  deep  solitude, 
Where  human  foot  ne'er  trod,  to  raise  thy  hut, 
To  talk  to  Nature,  but  to  think  of  man. 
Then  thou,  perchance,  like  Scotia's  darling  son, 
Hadst  sung  our  Pennsylvanian  villages, 
Our  bold  Oneidas,  and  our  tender  Gertrudes, 
And  sung,  like  him,  thy  listeners  into  tears. 
Such  were  thy  early  musings :  other  thoughts, 
And  happier,  doubtless,  have  concurred  to  fix  thee 
On  Britain's  venerated  shore ;  yet  still 
Must  that  young  thought  be  tenderly  remembered, 
Even  as  romantic  minds  are  sometimes  said 
To  cherish  their  first  love — not  that  'twas  wisest, 

But  that  'twas  earliest If  that  morning  dream 

Still  lingers  to  thy  noon  of  life,  remember, 
And  for  its  own  dear  sake,  when  thou  shalt  hear 
(As  oft,  alas !  thou  wilt)  those  gossip  tales, 
By  Jazy  Ignorance  or  inventive  Spleen, 
Related  of  the  vast,  the  varied  country, 
We  proudly  call  our  own — oh  !  then  refute  them 
By  the  just  consciousness  that  still  this  land 
Has  turned  no  adder's  ear  toward  thy  Muse 
That  charms  so  wisely ;  that  whene'er  her  tones, 
Mellowed  by  distance,  o'er  the  waters  come, 
They  meet  a  band  of  listeners — those  who  hear 
W7ith  breath-suspending  eagerness,  and  feel 
With  feverish  interest.     Be  this  their  praise, 
And  sure  they  '11  need  no  other  !     Such  there  are, 
Who,  from  the  centre  of  an  honest  heart, 
Bless  thee  for  ministering  to  the  purest  pleasure 
That  man,  whilst  breathing  earthly  atmosphere, 
In  this  minority  of  being,  knows — 
That  of  contemplating  immortal  verse, 
In  fit  communion  with  immortal  Truth ! 


THE  INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  OF  GOD. 

WHERE  art  thou  ? — THOU  !  source  and  support 
That  is  or  seen  or  felt ;  thyself  unseen,         [of  all 
Unfelt,  unknown — alas,  unknowable  ! 
I  look  abroad  among  thy  works — the  sky, 
Vast,  distant,  glorious  with  its  world  of  suns — 
Life-giving  earth,  and  ever-moving  main, 
And  speaking  winds— and  ask  if  these  are  thee! 
The  stars  that  twinkle  on,  the  eternal  hills, 
The  restless  tide's  outgoing  and  return, 
The  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air — 
Though  hailed  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less, 
Are  not  the  Power  I  seek;  are  thine,  not  thee! 
I  ask  thee  from  the  past :  if,  in  the  years, 
Since  first  intelligence  could  search  its  source, 
Or  in  some  former  unremembered  being, 
(If  such,  perchance,  were  mine),  did  they  behold 
And  next  interrogate  Futurity,  rthee  1 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 
Than  e'er  experience  owned — but  both  are  muto  , 
And  Past  and  Future,  vocal  on  all  else, 


ELIZA   TOWNSEND. 


48 


So  full  of  memories  and  phantasies, 
Are  deaf  and  speechless  here  !     Fatigued,  I  turn 
From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements,       [ward 
And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  in- 
From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  guest, 
If,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul, 
He  may  vouchsafe  himself — Spirit  to  spirit ! 
0  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired, 
Pavilioned  still  in  darkness,  wilt  thou  hide  thee  1 
What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate, 
Nor  human  eye  may  look  on  thine  and  live  1 
Welcome  the  penalty  !  let  that  come  now, 
Which  soon  or  late  must  come.     For  light  like  this 
Who  would  not  dare  to  die  ] 

Peace,  my  proud  aim, 

And  hush  the  wish  that  knows  not  what  it  asks. 
Await  His  will,  who  hath  appointed  this, 
W'ith  every  other  trial.     Be  that  will 
Done  now,  as  ever.     For  thy  curious  search, 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him — the  Unrevealed — learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  highest  hope  with  humbleness. 
Pass  thy  novitiate  in  these  outer  courts, 
Till  rent  the  veil,  no  longer  separating 
The  Holiest  of  all — as  erst,  disclosing 
A  brighter  disponsation  ;  whose  results 
Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 
Even  to  the  perfecting  thyself — thy  kind — 
Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude, 
By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  heaven 
Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart ! 


ANOTHER  "CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR." 

«  To  ME,  like  Phidias,  were  it  given 
To  form  from  clay  the  man  sublime, 

And,  like  Prometheus,  steal  from  heaven 
The  animating  spark  divine  !" 

Thus  once  in  rhapsody  you  cried : 
As  for  complexion,  form,  and  air, 

No  matter  what,  if  thought  preside, 
And  fire  and  feeling  mantle  there. 

Deep  on  the  tablets  of  his  mind 

Be  learning,  science,  taste,  imprest ; 

Let  piety  a  refuge  find 

Within  the  foldings  of  his  breast. 

Let  him  have  suffered  much — since  we, 
Alas  !  are  early  doomed  to  know, 

A.11  human  virtue  we  can  see 
Is  only  perfected  through  wo. 

Purer  the  ensuing  breeze  we  find 

When  whirlwinds  first  the  skies  deform , 

And  hardier  grows  the  mountain  hind 
Bleaching  beneath  the  wintry  storm. 

But,  above  all,  may  Heaven  impart 

That  talent  which  completes  the  whole — 
The  finest  and  the  rarest  art — • 

To  analyze  a  woman's  soul. 
Woman — that  happy,  wretched  being, 

Of  causeless  smile,  of  nameless  sigh, 
So  oft  whose  joys  unbidden  spring, 

So  oft  who  weeps,  she  knows  not  why ! 


Her  piteous  griefs,  her  joys  so  gay, 
All  that  afflicts  and  all  that  cheers ; 

All  her  erratic  fancy's  play, 

Her  fluttering  hopes,  her  trembling  fears. 

With  passions  chastened,  not  subdued, 

Let  dull  inaction  stupid  reign ; 
Be  his  the  ardor  of  the  good, 

Their  loftier  thought  and  nobler  aim. 

Firm  as  the  towering  bird  of  Jove, 
The  mightiest  shocks  of  life  to  beu* ; 

Yet  gentle  as  the  captive  dove, 
In  social  suffering  to  share. 

If  such  there  .be,  to  such  alone 

Would  I  thy  worth,  beloved,  resign ; 

Secure,  each  bliss  that  time  hath  known 
Would  consummate  a  lot  like  thine. 

But  if  this  gilded  human  scheme 
Be  but  the  pageant  of  the  brain. 

Of  such  slight  "  stuff"  as  forms  our  "  dream. 
Which,  waking,  we  must  seek  in  vain. 

Each  gift  of  nature  and  of  art 

Still  lives  within  thyself  enshrined  ; 

Thine  are  the  blossoms  of  the  heart, 
And  thine  the  scions  of  the  mind ! 

And  if  the  matchless  wreath  shall  blend 
With  foliage  other  than  its  own, 

Or,  destined  not  its  sweets  to  lend, 
Shall  flourish  for  thyself  alone — 

Still  cultivate  the  plants  with  care ; 

From  weeds,  from  thorns,  oh  keep  them  free 
Till,  ripened  for  a  purer  air, 

They  bloom  in  immortality  ! 


AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

FROM  A  POEM  ON  THE  DKATH  OF  CHARLES 
BHOCKDEN   BKOWX. 

THOUGH  Nature,  with  unsparing  hand, 
Has  scattered  round  thy  favored  land  ^ 
Those  gifts  that  prompt  the  aspiring  aim, 
And  fan  the  latent  spark  to  flame : 
Such  awful  shade  of  blackening  woods, 
Such  roaring  voice  of  giant  floods, 
Cliffs,  which  the  dizzied  eagles  flee, 
Such  cataracts,  tumbling  to  the  sea, 
That  in  this  lone  and  wild  retreat 
A  Collins  might  have  fixed  his  scat, 
Called  Horror  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
Or  Danger  from  the  depths  below — 
And  then,  for  those  of  milder  mood, 
Heedless  of  forest,  rock,  or  flood, 
Gay  fields,  bedecked  with  golden  grain, 
Rich'  orchards,  bending  to  the  plain, 
Where  Sydney's  fairy  pen  had  foiled, 
Which  Mantuan  Maro's  muse  had  hailml 
Yet,  midst  this  luxury  of  scone, 
These  varied  charms,  this  graceful  mien 
Canst  thou  no  hearts,  no  voices,  raise, 
Those  charms  to  feel,  those  charms  to  praise 


LAVINIA    STODDARD. 


(Born  1787-Died  1820). 


LAVIXIA  STONE,  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Elijah 
Stone,  was  born  in  Guilford,  Connecticut, 
on  the  twenty-ninth  of  June,  1787.  While 
she  was  an  infant  her  father  removed  to  Pat- 
erson,  in  New  Jersey,  and  here  she  received, 
besides  the  careful  instructions  of  an  intelli 
gent  and  judicious  mother,  such  education 
in  the  schools  as  was  at  the  time  common  to 
the  children  of  farmers.  In  1811  she  was 
married  to  Dr.  William  Stoddard,  a  man  of 
taste  and  liberal  culture,  of  Stratford,  in 
Connecticut,  and  in  the  then  flourishing  vil 
lage  of  Troy,  on  the  Hudson,  they  established 
an  academy,  which  they  conducted  success 
fully  for  several  years.  Mrs.  Stoddard  was 
attacked  with  consumption,  and  about  the 
year  1S18  she  removed  with  her  family  to 
Blakeley,  in  Alabama,  where  Dr.  Stoddard 
soon  after  died,  leaving  her  among  strangers 


and  in  poverty.  Partially  recovering  her 
own  health,  she  revisited  Troy  ;  but  the  se 
verity  of  the  climate  induced  her  to  return  to 
Blakeley,  where  she  died  in  1820. 

Mrs.  Stoddard  wrote  many  poems,  which 
were  printed  anonymously  in  the  public  jour 
nals,  or  addressed  privately  to  her  acquaint 
ances.  She  was  a  woman  of  piety,  benevo 
lence,  and  an  independent  temper;  and  the 
fine  poem  entitled  The  Soul's  Defiance,  her 
brother  has  informed  me,  "  was  interesting 
to  her  immediate  friends  for  the  truthfulness 
with  which  it  portrayed  her  own  experience 
and  her  indomitable  spirit,  which  never 
quailed  under  any  circumstances."  This  was 
written  in  a  period  of  suffering  and  with  a 
sense  of  injury.  It  is  the  last  of  her  compo 
sitions,  and  perhaps  the  best.  It  is  worthy 
of  George  Herbert. 


THE  SOUL'S  DEFIANCE. 

F  SAID  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm, 

That  beat  against  my  b  east, 
Ratio  on — thou  mnyst  destroy  this  form, 

And  lay  it  low  at  rest; 
But  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high, 
Uudaunted  on  its  fury  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I  said  to  Penury's  meagre  train, 

Come  on — your  threats  I  brave ; 
My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 

And  crush  me  to  the  grave ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 

Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 
And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 

With  hitter  smile. 

I  paid  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Pass  on — I  heed  you  not ; 
Yc  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Vet  still  the  spirit,  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles, 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  highborn  smiles. 

I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 
Strike  deep — my  heart  shall  bear; 

Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  wo 
To  those  already  there ; 


Yet  still  the  spirit  that  sustains 

This  last  severe  distress, 
Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

And  scorn  redress. 
I  said  to  Death's  uplifted  dart, 

Aim  sure — oh,  why  delay  T 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart — 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey ; 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Unruffled  by  this  last  dismay, 
Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity, 

Shall  pass  away. 

SOXQ. 

ASK  not  from  me  the  sportive  jest, 

The  mirthful  jibe,  the  gay  reflection , 
These  social  baubles  fly  the  breast 

That  owns  the  sway  of  pale  Dejection. 
Ask  not  from  me  the  changing  smile, 

Hope's  sunny  glow,  Joy's  glittering  token, 
It  can  not  now  my  griefs  beguile — 

My  soul  is  dark,  my  heart  is  broken ! 
Wit  can  not  cheat  my  heart  of  wo, 

Flattery  wakes  no  exultation, 
And  Fancy's  flash  but  serves  to  show 

The  darkness  of  my  desolation. 
By  me  no  more  in  masking  guise 

Shall  thoughtless  repartee  be  spoken ; 
My  mind  a  hopeless  ruin  lies — 

My  soul  is  dark,  my  heart  is  broken ! 
44 


HANNAH    F.   GOULD. 

(Born  1788-Died  1865). 


Miss  GOULD  is  a  native  of  Lancaster,  in 
the  southern  part  of  Vermont.  Her  father 
was  one  of  the  small  company  who  fought 
m  the  first  battle  of  the  Revolution,  and  in 
the  face  of  all  the  privations  and  discourage 
ments  of  that  long  and  of.en  hopeless  Avar 
remained  in  the  army  until  it  was  disbanded. 
In  The  Scar  of  Lexington,  The  Revolution 
ary  Soldier's  Request,  The  Veteran  and  the 
Child,  and  several  other  pieces,  we  suppose 
she  has  referred  to  him  ;  and  it  is  probably 
but  a  versification  of  a  family  incident  in 
which  an  old  man,  relating  the  story  of  his 
weary  campaigns,  says  to  a  child  — 
"  I  carried  my  musket,  as  one  that  must  be 
But  loosed  from  the  hold  of  the  dead,  or  the  free. 
And  fearless  I  lifted  my  good,  trusty  sword, 
In  the  hand  of  a  mortal,  the  strength  of  the  Lord." 

Miss  Gould's  history  is  in  a  peculiar  degree 
and  in  a  most  honorable  manner  identified 
with  her  father's.  In  her  youth  he  removed 
to  Newburyport,  near  Boston,  and  for  many 
years  before  his  death,  (for  the  touching 
poem  entitled  My  Lost  Father,  in  the  last 
volume  of  her  writings,  we  presume  had 
reference  to  that  went,)  she  was  his  house 
keeper,  his  constant  companion,  and  the 
chief  source  of  his  happiness. 

Miss  Gould's  poems  are  short,  but  they 
are  frequently  nearly  perfect  in  their  kind. 
Nearly  all  of  them  appeared  originally  in 
annuals,  magazines,  and  other  miscellanies, 
and  their  popularity  has  been  shown  by  the 


subsequent  sale  of  several  collective  editions. 
The  first  volume  she  published  came  out  in 
1832,  the  second  in  1835,  and  the  third  in 
1841 ;  and  a  new  edition,  embracing  many 
new  poems,  is  now  (1848)  in  preparation. 

Her  most  distinguishing  characteristic  is 
sprightliness.  Her  poetical  vein  seldom 
rises  above  the  fanciful,  but  in  her  vivacity 
there  is  both  wit  and  cheerfulness.  She 
needs  apparently  but  the  provocation  of  a 
wider  social  inspiration  to  become  very  cle 
ver  and  apt  in  jcux  d' esprit  and  epigrams, 
as  a  few  specimens  which  have  found  their 
way  into  the  journals  amply  indicate.  It 
is  however  in  such  pieces  as  Jack  Frost, 
The  Pebble  and  the  Acorn,  and  other  effu 
sions  devoted  to  graceful  details  of  nature, 
or  suggestive  incidents  in  life,  that  we  rec 
ognise  the  graceful  play  of  her  muse.  Often 
by  a  dainty  touch,  or  lively  prelude,  the  gen 
tle  raillery  of  her  sex  most  charmingly  re 
veals  itself,  and  in  this  respect  Miss  Gould 
manifests  a  decided  individuality  of  genius. 

Miss  Gould  seems  as  fond  as  JEsop  or  La 
Fontaine  of  investing  every  thing  in  nature 
with  a  human  intelligence  It  is  surprising 
to  see  how  frequently  and  how  happily  the 
birds,  the  insects,  the  trees  and  flowers  and 
pebbles  are  made  her  colloquists.  Her  poems 
could  be  illustrated  only  by  some  such  in 
genious  artists  as  those  who  have  recently 
amused  Paris  with  Scenes  dela  ViePubliqiie 
et  Privee  des  Animaux. 


A  NAME  IN  THE  SAND. 

ALOXE  I  walked  the  ocean  strand ; 
A  pearly  shell  was  in  my  hand  : 
I  stooped  and  wrote  upon  the  sanJ 

My  name — the  year — the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  spot  I  passed, 
One  lingering  look  behind  I  cast- 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast. 

And  washed  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methought,  'twill  shortly  be 
With  every  mark  on  earth  from  me : 
A  wave  of  dark  Oblivion's  sea 


Will  sweep  across  the  place 
Where  I  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  Time,  and  been  to  be  no  more, 
Of  me — my  day — the  name  I  bore, 

To  leave  nor  track  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the  sands, 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
I  know  a  lasting  record  stands, 

Inscribed  against  my  name, 
Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought , 
Ot  all  this  thinking  soul  has  thought . 
A  .d  from  these  fleeting  moments  caugi»f 

For  glory  or  for  shame. 

45 


4fi 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


CHANGES  ON  THE  DEEP. 

A  GALLANT  ship  !  and  trim  and  tight 
Across  the  deep  she  speeds  away, 

While  mant'ed  with  the  golden  light 
The  sun  throws  hack  at  close  of  day 

And  who,  that  sees  that  stately  ship 

Her  haughty  stern  in  ocean  dip, 

H:i^  ever  seen  a  prouder  one 

Il.'umincd  hy  a  setting  sun] 

The  hreath  of  summer,  sweet  and  soft, 
Her  canvass  swells,  while,  wide  and  fair, 

And  floating  from  her  mast  aloft, 
Her  flag  pi  ays  off  on  gent'e  air. 

And,  as  her  steady  prow  divides 

The  waters  to  her  even  sides, 

She  passes,  like  a  bird,  between 

The  peaceful  deep  and  sky  serene. 

And  now  gray  twilight's  tender  veil 

The  moon  wi  h  shafts  of  silver  rends; 
And  down  on  billow,  deck,  and  sail, 

Her  placid  lustre  gently  sends. 
The  stars,  as  if  the  arch  of  blue 
Were  pierced  to  let  the  glory  through, 
From  their  bright  world  look  out  and  win 
The  thoughts  of  man  to  enter  in. 

And  many  a  heart  that's  warm  and  true 

That  noble  ship  bears  on  with  pride ; 
While,  mid  the  many  forms,  are  two 

Of  passing  beauty,  side  by  side. 
A  fair  young  mother,  standing  by 
Her  bosom's  lord,  has  fixed  her  eye, 
With  his,  upon  the  blessed  star 
That  points  them  to  their  home  afar. 
Their  thoughts  fly  foi  th  to  those,  who  there 

Are  waiting  now,  with  joy  to  hail 
The  moment  that  shall  grant  their  prayer, 

And  heave  in  sight  their  coming  sail. 
For,  many  a  time  the  changeful  queen 
Of  night  has  vanished,  and  been  seen, 
Since,  o'er  a  foreign  shore  to  roam, 
They  passed  from  that  dear,  native  home. 
The  lube,  that  on  its  father's  breast 

Has  let  its  little  eyelids  close, 
The  mother  bears  below  to  rest, 

And  sinks  with  it  in  sweet  repose. 
The  while  a  sailor  climbs  the  shroud, 
And  in  the  distance  spies  a  cloud: 
Low,  like  a  swelling  seed,  it  lies, 
From  which  the  towering  storm  shall  rise. 
The  powers  of  air  are  now  about 

To  muster  from  their  hidden  caves ; 
The  winds,  unchained,  come  rushing  out, 

And  into  mountains  heap  the  waves. 
Upon  t'.io  sky  tho  darkness  spreads! 
rin-  Tempest  on  the  Ocean  treads; 
And  yawning  caverns  are  its  track 
Amid  the  waters  wild  and  black. 
Its  ,-oice — but  who  shall  give  the  sounds 

Of  that  dread  voice  I— The  ship  is  dashed 
In  roaring  depths — and  now  she  bounds 

On  high,  hy  foaming  surges  lashed. 


And  how  is  she  the  storm  to  bide  ? 
Its  sweeping  win^s  are  strong  and  wide ! 
The  hand  of  man  has  lost  control 
O'er  her — his  work  is  for  the  soul ! 

She 's  in  a  scene  of  Nature's  war  : 

The  \\  inds  and  waters  are  at  strife ; 
And  both  with  her  contending  for 
The  brittle  thread  of  human  life 
That  she  contains ;  while  sail  and  shroud 
Have  yielded,  and  her  head  is  bowed. 
Then  who  that  slender  thread  shall  keep 
But  He  whose  finger  moves  the  deep  ? 

A  moment — and  the  angry  blast 

Has  done  its  work  and  hurried  on. 
With  parted  cables,  shivered  mast — 
With  riven  sides,  and  anchor  gone, 
Behold  the  ship  in  ruin  lie ; 
While  from  the  waves  a  piercing  cry 
Surmounts  the  tumult  high  and  wild, 
And  shouts  to  heaven,  "  My  child  !  my  child  !" 

The  mother  in  the  whelming  surge 

Lifts  up  her  infant  o'er  the  sea, 
While  lying  on  the  awful  verge 

Where  time  unveils  eternity — 
And  calls  to  Mercy,  from  the.  skies 
To  come  and  rescue,  while  she  dies, 
The  gift  that,  with  her  fleeting  breath, 
She  offers  from  the  gates  of  death. 

It  is  a  call  for  Heaven  to  hear. 

Maternal  fondness  sends  above 
A  voice,  that  in  her  Father's  ear 

Shall  enter  quick,  for  God  is  love. 
In  such  a  moment,  hands  like  these 
Their  Maker  with  their  offering  sees ; 
And  for  the  faith  of  such  a  breast 
He  will  the  blow  of  death  arrest ! 

The  moon  looks  pale  from  out  the  cloud, 

While  Mercy's  angel  takes  the  form 
Of  him,  who,  mounted  on  the  shroud, 

W  as  first  to  see  the  coming  storm. 
The  sailor  has  a  ready  arm 
To  bring  relief,  and  cope  with  harm ; 
Though  rough  his  hand,  and  nerved  with  steel, 
His  heart  is  warm  and  quick  to  feel. 

And  see  him,  as  he  braves  the  frown 
That  sky  and  sea  each  other  give  ! 

Behold  him  where  he  plunges  down, 
That  child  and  mother  yet  may  live, 

And  plucks  them  from  a  closing  grave ! 

They  're  saved  !  they  're  saved  !  the  maddened 
wave 

Leaps  foaming  up,  to  find  its  prey 

Snatched  from  its  mouth  and  borne  away. 

They  're  saved !  they  're  saved  !  but  where  is  he, 
Who  lulled  his  fearless  babe  to  sleep ! 

A  floating  plank  on  that  wild  sea 
Has  now  his  vital  spark  to  keep ! 

But,  by  the  wan,  affrighted  moon, 

Help  comes  to  him  ;  and  he  is  soon 

Upon  the  deck  with  living  men 

To  clasp  that  smiling  boy  again. 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


47 


And  now  can  He,  who  only  knows 
Each  human  breast,  behold  alone 

What  pure  and  grateful  incense  goes 
From  that  sad  wreck  to  his  high  throne. 

The  twain,  whose  hearts  are  truly  one, 

Wi  1  early  teach  their  prattling  son 

Upon  his  little  heart  to  bear 

The  sailor  to  his  God,  in  prayer : 

"  O  Thou,  who  in  thy  hand  dost  hold 

The  winds  and  waves,  that  wake  or  sleep, 
Thy  tender  arms  of  mercy  fold 

Around  the  seamen  on  the  deep ! 
And,  when  their  voyage  of  life  is  o'er, 
May  they  be  welcomed  to  the  shore 
Whose  peaceful  streets  with  gold  are  paved, 
And  angels  sing,  '  They  're   saved!  —  they're 
saved  !'  " 


THE  SCAR  OF  LEXINGTON. 

WITH  cherub  smile,  the  prattling  boy, 
Who  on  the  veteran's  breast  reclines, 

Has  thrown  aside  his  favorite  toy, 
And  round  his  tender  finger  twines 

Those  scattered  locks,  that,  with  the  flight 

Of  fourscore  years,  are  snowy  white ; 

And,  as  a  scar  arrests  his  view, 

He  cries,  "  Grandpa,  what  wounded  you1?" 

"  My  child,  't  is  five-and-fifty  years 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour, 

Since,  from  a  scene  of  blood  and  tears, 
Where  valor  fell  by  hostile  power, 

I  saw  retire  the  setting  sun 

Behind  the  hills  of  Lexington ; 

While  pale  and  lifeless  on  the  plain 

My  brothers  lay,  for  freedom  slain  ! 

"  And  ere  that  fight,  the  first  that  spoke 
In  thunder  to  our  land,  was  o'er, 

Amid  the  clouds  of  fire  and  smoke, 
I  felt  my  garments  wet  with  gore ! 

'Tis  since  that  dread  and  wild  affray, 

That  trying,  dark,  eventful  day, 

From  this  calm  April  eve  so  far, 

I  wear  upon  my  cheek  the  scar. 

"  When  thou  to  manhood  shalt  be  grown, 

And  I  am  gone  in  dust  to  sleep, 
May  freedom's  rights  be  still  thine  own, 

And  thou  and  thine  in  quiet  reap 
The  unb'.ighted  product  of  the  toil 
In  which  my  blood  bedewed  the  soil ! 
And,  while  those  fruits  thou  shalt  enjoy, 
Bethink  thee  of  this  scar,  my  boy. 

"  But,  should  thy  country's  voice  be  heard 

To  bid  her  children  fly  to  arms, 
Gird  on  thy  grandsire's  trusty  sword : 
And,  undismayed  by  war's  alarms, 
Remember,  on  the  battle  field, 
I  made  the  hand  of  GOD  my  shield: 
And  be  thou  spared,  like  me,  to  tell 
What  bore  thee  up,  while  others  fell !" 


THE  SNOWFLAKE. 

"  Now,  if  I  fall,  will  it  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  lone  and  lowly  spot, 

To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen,  or  forgot  ? 

And  there  will  my  course  be  ended  1" 
'T  was  this  a  feathery  Snowflake  said, 
As  down  through  measureless  space  it  strayed, 
Or  as,  half  by  dalliance,  half  afraid, 

It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended. 

"  Oh,  no !"  said  the  Earth,  "  thou  shalt  not  lie 
Neglected  and  lone  on  my  lap  to  die, 
Thou  pure  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky ! 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping. 
But,  then,  I  must  give  thee  a  lovelier  form — 
Thou  wilt  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm, 
But  revive,  when  the   sunbeams  are  yellow  and 
warm, 

And  the  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping ! 

"  And  then  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice,  to  be 
Restored  in  the  lily  that  decks  the  lea, 
In  the  jessamine  bloom,  the  anemone, 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness-, 
To  melt,  and  be  cast  in  a  glittering  bead 
With  the  pearls  that  the  night  scatters  over  the 

mead, 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  firefly  feed, 

Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness. 

"I'll  let  thee  awake  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
When  Viola's  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep, 
In  a  tremulous  tear ;  or,  a  diamond,  leap 

In  a  drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain ; 
Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow,  and  heath, 
The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath, 
Go  up  and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath 

Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

"  Or  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  in  the  skies, 
To  shine  in  the  Iris  I  '11  let  thee  arise, 
And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 

A  pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending ! 
But  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 
I  '11  give  thee  a  new  and  vernal  birth, 
When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth, 

And  never  regret  descending  !" 

«  Then  I  will  drop,"  said  the  trusting  Flake , 
"  But,  bear  it  in  mind,  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers  nor  the  dew  to  wake ; 

Nor  the  mist,  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  will  die  with  thee ; 
But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me, 
Must  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  dust  set  free, 

To  the  regions  at^ve  returning. 

"  And  if  true  to  thy  word  and  just  thou  art. 
Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart. 
Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  me  depart, 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven. 
For  I  would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow ; 
So  thou  mayst  remember  the  Flake  of  Snow 

By  the  promise  that  GOD  hath  (riven !" 


HANNAH    F.   GOULD. 


THE    WINDS. 

WK  come  !  we  come  !  and  ye  feel  our  might, 
As  we're  hastening  on  in  our  boundless  flight, 
And  over  the  mountains  and  over  the  deep 
Our  broad,  invisible  pinions  sweep, 
Like  the  spirit  of  Liberty,  wild  and  free ! 
And  ye  look  on  our  works,  and  own  'tis  we; 
Ye  call  us  the  Winds:   but  can  ye  tell 
Whither  we  go,  or  where  we  dwell  1 

Ye  mark,  as  we  vary  our  forms  of  power, 
And  fell  the  forests,  or  fan  the  flower, 
When  the  harebell  moves,  and  the  rush  is  bent, 
When  the  tower's  o'erthrown,  and  the  oak  is  rent 
As  we  wait  the  bark  o'er  the  slumbering  wave, 
Or  hurry  its  crew  to  a  watery  grave ; 
And  ye  say  it  is  we ! — but  can  ye  trace 
The  wandering  winds  to  their  secret  place  1 

And,  whether  our  breath  be  loud  or  high, 
Or  come  in  a  soft  and  balmy  sigh, 
Our  tlireatenings  fill  the  soul  with  fear, 
Or  our  gent'e  whisperings  woo  the  ear 
With  music  aerial,  still  'tis  we. 
And  ye  list  and  ye  look ;  but  what  do  ye  see  ? 
Can  ye  hush  one  sound  of  our  voice  to  peace, 
Or  waken  one  note  when  our  numbers  cease  ] 

04ur  dwelling  is  in  the  Almighty's  hand ; 
We  come  and  we  go  at  his  command. 
Though  joy  or  sorrow  may  mark  our  track, 
His  will  is  our  guide,  and  we  look  not  back: 
And  if,  in  our  wrath  ye  would  turn  us  away, 
Or  win  us  in  gentle  airs  to  play, 
Then  lift  up  your  hearts  to  Him  who  binds 
Or  frees,  as  he  will,  the  obedient  winds. 


THE  FROST. 

THE  Frost  looked  forth  one  still,  clear  night, 
And  whispered,  "Now  I  shall  be  out  of  sight: 
So,  through  the  valley,  and  over  the  height, 

In  silence  I'll  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  on  like  that  blustering  train — 
The  wind  and  the  snow,  the  hail  and  the  rain— 
Who  make  s  >  much  bustle  and  noise  in  vain; 

But  I'll  be  as  busy  as  they." 

Then  he  lli-w  to  the  mountain  and  powder'd  its  crest; 
He  lit  on  the  trees,  and  their  boughs  he  drest 
In  diamond  heads;  and  over  the  breast 

Of  the  (]uivering  lake  he  spread 
A  coat  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  fear 
The  downward  point  of  many  a  spear 
That  he  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near, 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 

He  went  to  the  windows  of  those  who  slept, 
And  over  e:ieh  pane,  like  a  fairy,  crept; 
\Vherev.-r  he  breathed,  wherever  he  slept, 

By  the  light  of  the  morn,  were  seen 
Mos*t  beautiful  things:  there  were  flowers  and  trees; 
There  weie  bevies  of  birds,  and  swarms  of  bees; 
There  were  cities,  with  temples  and  towers — and 

All  pictured  in  silver  sheen  !  [these 


But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair: 
He  peeped  in  the  cupboard,  and  finding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare — 

"  Now,  just  to  set  them  a-thinking, 
I'll  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  he, 
"  This  costly  pitcher  I  '11  burst  in  three ; 
And  the  glass  of  water  they  've  left  for  me 

Shall  '  tchick !'  to  tell  them  I'm  drinking." 


THE  WATERFALL. 

YE  mighty  waters,  that  have  joined  your  forces, 
.Roaring  and  dashing  with  this  awful  sound, 

Here  are  ye  mingled ;  but  the  distant  sources 
Whence  ye  have  issued — where  shall  they  be 
found  ] 

Who  may  retrace  the  ways  that  ye  have  taken, 
Ye  streams  and  drops  ]  who  separate  you  all, 

And  find  the  many  places  ye  've  forsaken, 
To  come  and  rush  together  down  the  fall  1 

Through  thousand,  thousand  paths  have  ye  been 
roaming, 

In  earth  and  air,  who  now  each  other  urge 
To  the  last  point !  and  then,  so  madly  foaming, 

Leap  down  at  once  from  this  stupendous  verge 

Some  in  the  lowering  cloud  a  while  were  centred. 

That  in  the  stream  beheld  its  sable  face, 
And  melted  into  tears,  that,  falling,  entered 

With  sister  waters  on  this  sudden  race- 
Others,  to  light  that  beamed  upon  the  fountain, 

Have  from  the  vitals  of  the  rock  been  freed, 
In  silver  threads,  that,  shining  down  the  mountain, 

Twined  off  among  the  verdure  of  the  mead. 

And  many  a  flower  that  bowed  beside  the  river, 
In  opening  beauty,  ere  the  dew  was  dried, 

Stirred  by  the  breeze,  has  been  an  early  giver 
Of  her  pure  offering  to  the  rolling  tide. 

Thus,  from  the  veins,  through  earth's  dark  bosom 

pouring, 

Many  have  flowed  in  tributary  streams ; 
Some,  in  the  bow  that  bent,  the  sun  adoring, 

Have  shone  in  colors  borrowed  from  his  beams. 
But  He,  who  holds  the  ocean  in  the  hollow 
Of  his  strong  hand,  can  separate  you  all ! 
His  searching  eye  the  secret  way  will  follow 

Of  every  drop  that  hurries  to  the  fall ! 
We  are,  like  you,  in  mighty  torrents  mingled, 
_  And  speeding  downward  to  one  common  home  ; 
Yet  there 's  an  Eye  that  every  drop  hath  singled, 
And  marked  the  winding  ways  through  which 
we  come. 

Those  who  have  here  adored  the  Sun  of  heaven, 

And  shown  the  world  their  brightness  drawn 

from  him, 
Again  before  him,  though  their  hues  be  seven, 

Shall  blend  their  beauty,  never  to  grow  dim 
We  bless  the  promise,  as  we  thus  are  tending 

Down  to  the  tomb,  that  gives  us  hope  to  rise 
Before  the  Power  to  whom  we  now  are  bending, 

To  stand  his  bow  of  glory  in  the  skies ! 


HANNAH    F.    GOULD. 


THE  MOON  UPON  THE  SPIRE. 

THE  full  orbed  moon  has  reached  no  higher 
Than  yon  old  church's  mossy  spire, 
And  seems,  as  gliding  up  the  air, 
She  saw  the  fane ;  and,  pausing  there, 
Would  worship,  in  the  tranquil  night, 
The  Prince  of  Peace — the  Source  of  light, 
Where  man  for  GOD  prepared  the  place, 
And  GOD  to  man  unveils  his  face. 

Her  tribute  all  around  is  seen ; 
She  bends,  and  worships  like  a  queen ! 
Her  robe  of  light  and  beaming  crown 
In  silence  she  is  casting  down  ; 
And,  as  a  creature  of  the  earth, 
She  feels  her  lowliness  of  birth — 
Her  weakness  and  inconstancy 
Before  unchanging  purity  ! 

Pale  traveller,  on  thy  lonely  way, 
'Tis  well  thine  homage  thus  to  pay; 
To  reverence  that  ancient  pile, 
And  spread  thy  silver  o'er  the  aisle 
Which  many  a  pious  foot  has  trod, 
That  now  is  dust  beneath  the  sod  ; 
Where  many  a  sacred  tear  was  wept 
From  eyes  that  long  in  death  have  slept ! 

The  temple's  builders — where  are  they  ] 

The  worshippers] — a'l  passed  away, 

WTho  came  the  first,  to  offer  there 

The  song  of  praise,  the  heart  of  prayer ! 

Man's  generation  passes  soon  ; 

It  wanes  and  changes  like  the  moon. 

He  raises  the  perishable  wall, 

But,  ere  it  crumbles,  he  must  fall ! 

And  does  he  sink  to  rise  no  more  1 
Has  he  no  part  to  triumph  o'er 
The  pallid  king?   no  spark,  to  save 
From  darkness,  ashes,  and  the  grave  1 
Thou  holy  place,  the  answer,  wrought 
In  thy  firm  structure,  bars  the  thought ! 
The  Spirit  that  established  thee 
Nor  death  nor  darkness  e'er  shall  see ! 


THE  ROBE. 

'T  WAS  not  the  robe  of  state 
Which  the  high  and  the  haughty  wear, 
That  my  busy  hand,  as  the  lamp  burned  late, 
Was  hastening  to  prepare. 

It  had  no  clasp  of  gold, 
No  diamond's  dazzling  blaze, 
For  the  festive  board ;  nor  the  graceful  fold 
To  float  in  the  dance's  maze. 

'Twas  not  to  wrap  the  breast 
With  gladness  light  and  warm  ; 
For  the  bride's  attire — for  the  joyous  guest, 
Nor  to  clothe  the  sufferer's  form. 

'Twas  not  the  garb  of  wo 
We  wear  o'er  an  aching  heart, 
When  our  eyes  with  bitter  tears  o'erflow, 
And  our  dearest  ones  depart. 
4 


'T  was  what  we  all  must  bear 
To  the  cold,  the  lonely  bed  ! 
'Twas  the  spotless  uniform  they  wear 
In  the  chambers  of  the  dead ! 
I  saw  the  fair  young  maid 
In  the  snowy  vesture  drest ; 
So  pure,  she  looked  as  one  arrayed 
For  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 

A  smile  had  left  its  trace 
On  her  lip  at  the  parting  breath, 
And  the  beauty  in  that  lovely  face 
Was  fixed  with  the  seal  of  death ! 


THE  CONSIGNMENT. 

FIRE,  my  hand  is  on  the  key, 

And  the  cabinet  must  ope  ! 
I  shall  now  consign  to  thee 

Things  of  grief,  of  joy,  of  hope. 
Treasured  secrets  of  the  heart 

To  thy  care  I  hence  intrust : 
Not  a  word  must  thou  impart, 

But  reduce  them  all  to  dust. 
This — in  childhood's  rosy  morn, 

This  was  gayly  filled  and  sent. 
Childhood  is  for  ever  gone : 

Here,  devouring  element ! 
This  was  Friendship's  cherished  pledsre . 

Friendship  took  a  colder  form : 
Creeping  on  its  gilded  edge, 

May  the  blaz'e  be  bright  and  warm  ! 

These — the  letter  and  the  token, 

Never  more  shall  meet  my  view  ! 
When  the  faith  has  once  been  broken, 

Let  the  memory  perish  too ! 
This — 'twas  penned  while  purest  joy 

Warmed  the  heart,  and  lit  the  eye . 
Fate  that  peace  did  soon  destroy, 

And  its  transcript  now  will  I ! 

This  must  go !  for,  on  the  seal 

When  I  broke  the  solemn  yew, 
Keener  was  the  pang  than  steel ; 

'T  was  a  heart  string  breaking,  too  I 
Here  comes  up  the  blotted  leaf, 

Blistered  o'er  by  many  a  tear. 
Hence  !  thou  waking  shade  of  grief  ( 

Go,  for  ever  disappear  ! 
This  is  his,  who  seemed  to  be 

High  as  heaven,  and  fair  as  light : 
But  the  visor  rose,  and  he — • 

Spare,  0  Memory,  spare  the  sight 
Of  the  face  that  frowned  beneath 

While  I  take  it,  hand  and  name, 
And  entwine  it  with  a  wreath 

Of  the  purifying  flame  ! 
These — the  hand  is  in  the  grave, 

And  the  soul  is  in  the  skies, 
Whence  they  came. .     Tis  pain  to  savu 

Cold  remains  of  sundered  tie?  ! 
Go  together,  all,  and  burn, 

Once  the  treasures  of  my  heart ! 
Still,  my  breast  shall  be  an  urn 

To  preserve  your  better  part! 


DO 


HANNAH   F.   GOULD. 


THE   WINTER  BURIAL. 

THE  deep  toned  bell  peals  long  and  low 

On  the  keen,  midwinter  air; 
A  sorrowing  train  moves  sad  and  slow 

From  the  solemn  place  of  prayer. 

The  earth  is  in  a  winding  sheet, 

And  nature  wrapped  in  gloom; 
Cold,  cold  the  path  which  the  mourners'  feet 

Pursue  to  the  waiting  tomb. 

They  follow  one  who  calmly  goes 
From  her  own  loved  mansion  door, 

Nor  shrinks  from  the  way  through  gathered  snows, 
To  return  to  her  home  no  more. 

A  sable  line,  to  the  drift  crowned  h:i'. 

The  narrow  pass  they  wind  ; 
And  here,  where  all  is  drear  and  chill, 

Their  friend  they  leave  behind. 

The  silent  grave  they  're  bending  o'er, 

A  long  farewell  to  take  ; 
One  last,  last  look,  and  then,  no  more 

Ti.l  the  dead  shall  all  awake ! 


THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

"  I  AM  a  Pebble  !  and  yield  to  none  !" 
Were  the  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone — 
"  Nor  time  nor  seasons  can  alter  me ; 
f  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 
The  pelting  hail  and  the  drizzling  rain 
Have  tried  to  soften  me,  long,  in  vain ; 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt 
Or  touch  my  heart ;  but  it  was  not  felt. 
There's  none  that  can  tell  about  my  birth, 
For  I'm  as  old  as  the  big,  round  earth. 
The  chi  dren  of  men  arise,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  world,  like  the  blades  of  grass  ; 
And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod, 
That's  gone  from  sight,  and  under  the  sod. 
I  am  a  Pebble  !  but  who  art  thou, 
Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough  1" 

The  Acorn  was  shocked  at  this  rude  salute, 
And  lay  for  a  moment  abashed  and  mute; 
She  never  before  had  been  so  near 
This  uravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere; 
And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 
How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  and  low. 
But  to  »ive  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort 
Than  the  angry  look,  or  the  keen  retort, 
At  lenirth  she  s;iid,  in  a  gentle  tone, 
"  Since  it  is  happened  that  I  am  thrown 
Fro  n  the  lighter  element  whore  I  grew, 
Down  to  another  so  hard  and  new, 
And  hcside  a  personage  so  august, 
Abased,  I  will  cover  my  head  with  dust, 
And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 
Whom  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun, 
Nor  Me  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel, 
Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel !" 
And  soon  in  the  earth  she  sank  away 
From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  Pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
Bv  ».h/r  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak! 


And,  as  it  arose,  and  its  branches  spread, 

The  Pebble  looked  up,  and,  wondering,  said, 

"  A  modest  Acorn — never  to  tell 

What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell ' 

That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  fo'ded  up 

In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup ! 

And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth, 

Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her  worth 

And,  oh !  how  many  will  tread  on  me, 

To  come  and  admire  the  beautiful  tree, 

Whose  head  is  towering  toward  the  sky, 

Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 

Useless  and  vain,  a  cumberer  here, 

I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 

But  never  from  this,  shall  a  vaunting  woid 

From  the  humbled  Pebble  again  be  heard, 

Till  something  without  me  or  within 

Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I've  been'" 

The  Pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget, 

And  it  lies  there  wrapped  in  silence  yet. 

THE  SHIP  IS  READY. 

FARE  thee  well !  the  ship  is  ready, 
And  the  breeze  is  fresh  and  steady. 
Hands  are  fast  the  anchor  weighing; 
High  in  air  the  streamer's  playing. 
Spread  the  sails — the  waves  are  swelling 
Proudly  round  thy  buoyant  dwelling. 
Fare  thee  well !  and  when  at  sea, 
Think  of  those  who  sigh  for  thee. 

When  from  land  and  home  receding, 
And  from  hearts  that  ache  to  bleeding, 
Think  of  those  behind,  who  love  thee, 
While  the  sun  is  bright  above  thee ! 
Then,  as,  down  to  ocean  glancing, 
In  the  waves  his  rays  are  dancing, 
Think  how  long  the  night  will  be 
To  the  eyes  that  weep  for  thee ! 

When  the  lonely  night  watch  keeping 
All  below  thee  still  and  sleeping — 
As  the  needle  points  the  quarter 
O'er  the  wide  and  trackless  water, 
Let  thy  vigils  ever  find  thee 
Mindful  of  the  friends  behind  thee ! 
Let  thy  bosom's  magnet  be 
Turned  to  those  who  wake  for  thee ! 

When,  with  slow  and  gentle  motion 
Heaves  the  bosom  of  the  ocean — 
While  in  peace  thy  bark  is  riding, 
And  the  silver  moon  is  gliding 
O'er  the  sky  with  tranquil  splendor, 
Where  the  shining  hosts  attend  her: 
Let  the  brightest  visions  be 
Country,  home,  and  friends,  to  thee ! 
When  the  tempest  hovers  o'er  thee, 
Danger,  wreck,  and  death,  before  thee, 
While  the  sword  of  fire  is  gleaming. 
Wild  the  winds,  the  torrent  streaming, 
Then,  a  pious  ?uppliant  bending, 
Let  thy  thoughts,  to  Heaven  ascending, 
Reach  the  mercy  scat,  to  be 
Met  by  prayers  that  rise  for  thee ! 


HANNAH    F.   GOULD. 


51 


THE  CHILD  ON  THE  BEACH. 

MAHY,  a  beautiful,  artless  child, 

Came  down  on  the  beach  to  me, 
Where  I  sat,  and  a  pensive  hour  beguiled 

By  watching  the  restless  sea. 
never  had  seen  her  face  before, 

And  mine  was  to  her  unknown ; 
But  we  each  rejoiced  on  that  peaceful  shore 

The  other  to  meet  alone. 
Her  cheek  was  the  rose's  opening  bud, 

Her  brow  of  an  ivory  white ; 
Her  eyes  were  bright  as  the  stars  that  stud 

The  sky  of  a  cloudless  night. 
To  reach  my  side  as  she  gayly  sped, 

With  the  step  of  a  bounding  fawn, 
The  pebbles  scarce  moved  beneath  her  tread, 

Ere  the  little  light  foot  was  gone. 
With  the  love  of  a  holier  world  than  this 

Her  innocent  heart  seemed  warm ; 
While  the  glad  young  spirit  looked  out  with  bliss 

From  its  shrine  in  her  sylphlike  form. 
Her  soul  seemed  spreading  the  scene  to  span 

That  opened  before  her  view, 
And  longing  for  power  to  look  the  plan 

Of  the  universe  fairly  through. 
She  climbed  and  stood  on  the  rocky  steep, 

Like  a  bird  that  would  mount  and  fly 
Far  over  the  waves,  where  the  broad,  blue  deep 

Rolled  up  to  the  bending  sky. 
She  placed  her  lips  to  the  spiral  shell, 

And  breathed  through  every  fold ; 
She  looked  for  the  depth  of  its  pearly  cell, 

As  a  miser  would  look  for  gold. 
Her  small,  white  fingers  were  spread  to  toss 

The  foam,  as  it  reached  the  strand : 
She  ran  them  along  in  the  purple  moss, 

And  over  the  sparkling  sand. 
The  green  sea  egg,  by  its  tenant  left, 

And  formed  to  an  ocean  cup, 
She  he'.d  by  its  sides,  of  their  spears  bereft, 

To  fill,  as  the  waves  rolled  up. 
But  the  hour  went  round,  and  she  knew  the  space 

Her  mother's  soft  word  assigned ; 
While  she  seemed  to  look  with  a  saddening  face 

On  all  she  must  leave  behind. 
She  searched  mid  the  pebbles,  and,  finding  one 

Smooth,  clear,  and  of  amber  dye, 
She  held  it  up  to  the  morning  sun, 

And  over  her  own  mild  eye. 
Then,  "  Here,"  said  she,  "  I  will  give  you  this, 

That  you  may  remember  me  !" 
And  she  sealed  her  gift  with  a  parting  kiss, 

And  fled  from  beside  the  sea. 
Mary,  thy  token  is  by  me  yet  : 

To  me  'tis  a  dearer  gem 
Than  ever  was  brought  from  the  mine,  or  set 

In  the  loftiest  diadem. 
It  carries  me  back  to  the  far  off  deep, 

And  places  me  on  the  shore, 
Where  the  beauteous  child,  who  bade  me  keep 
Her  pebble,  1  meet  once  more. 


And  all  that  is  lovely,  pure,  and  bright, 

In  a  soul  that  is  young,  and  free 
From  the  stain  of  guile,  and  the  deadly  blight 

Of  sorrow,  I  find  in  thee. 
I  wonder  if  ever  thy  tender  heart 

In  memory  meets  me  there, 
WThere  thy  soft,  quick  sigh,  as  we  had  to  part, 

WTas  caught  by  the  ocean  air. 
Blest  one  !  over  Time's  rude  shore,  on  thee 

May  an  angel  guard  attend, 
And  "  a  white  stone  bearing  a  new  name,"  be 

Thy  passport  when  time  shall  end ! 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MAIL. 

'Tis  midnight — all  is  peace  profound! 
But,  lo  !  upon  the  murmuring  ground, 
The  lonely,  swelling,  hurrying  sound 

Of  distant  wheels  is  heard ! 
They  come — they  pause  a  moment — when. 
Their  charge  resigned,  they  start,  and  then 
Are  gone,  and  all  is  hushed  again, 

As  not  a  leaf  had  stirred. 
Hast  thou  a  parent  far  away, 
A  beauteous  child,  to  be  thy  stay 
In  life's  decline — or  sisters,  they 

Who  shared  thine  infant  glee  ] 
A  brother  on  a  foreign  shore  1 
Is  he  whose  breast  thy  token  bore, 
Or  are  thy  treasures  wandering  o'er 

A  wide,  tumultuous  seal 
If  aught  like  these,  then  thou  must  feel 
The  rattling  of  that  reckless  wheel, 
That  brings  the  bright  or  boding  seal 

On  every  trembling  thread 
That  strings  thy  heart,  till  morn  appears, 
To  crown  thy  hopes,  or  end  thy  fears, 
To  light  thy  smile,  or  draw  thy  tears, 

As  line  on  line  is  read. 
Perhaps  thy  treasure 's  in  the  deep, 
Thy  lover  in  a  dreamless  sleep, 
Thy  brother  where  thou  canst  not  weep 

Upon  his  distant  grave  ! 
Thy  parent's  hoary  head  no  more 
May  shed  a  silver  lustre  o'er 
His  children  grouped — nor  death  restore 

Thy  son  from  out  the  wave  ! 
Thy  prattler's  tongue,  perhaps,  is  stilled. 
Thy  sister's  lip  is  pale  and  chilled, 
Thy  blooming  bride,  perchance,  has  filled 

Her  corner  of  the  tomb. 
May  be,  the  home  where  all  thy  sweet 
And  tender  recollections  meet, 
Has  shown  its  flaming  winding-sheet 

In  midnight's  awful  gloom  ! 
And  while,  alternate,  o'er  my  soul 
Those  cold  or  burning  wheels  will  roll 
Their  ohill  or  heat,  beyond  control. 

Till  morn  shall  bring  relief — 
Father  in  heaven,  whate'er  may  be 
The  cup  which  thou  hast  sent  for  me, 
I  know  'tis  good,  prepare!  by  thee. 

Though  filled  with  joy  '>r  e.ri-A'* 


CAROLINE    OILMAN. 


(Born  1794). 


CAROLINE  HOWARD  was  born  in  Boston,  in 
1794,  and  in  1819  was  married  to  the  Rev. 
Samuel  Oilman,  one  of  the  most  accom 
plished  scholars  of  the  Unitarian  church, 
who  is  known  as  an  author  by  his  very  clever 
work  entitled  Memoirs  of  a  New  England 
Yjllage  Choir,  and  by  numerous  elegant  pa 
pers  in  the  reviews.  Soon  ai'er  their  mar 
riage  they  removed  to  Charleston,  South  Car 
olina,  where  Dr.  Gil  man  has  ever  since  been 
actively  engaged  in  the  duties  of  his  pro 
fession. 

Mrs.  Oilman  is  best  known  as  a  writer  of 
prose,  and  her  works  will  long  be  valued  for 
the  spirit  and  fidelity  with  which  she  has 
painted  rural  and  domestic  life  in  the  north 
ern  and  in  the  southern  states.  Her  Recol 
lections  of  a  New  England  Housekeeper, 
and  Recollections  of  a  Southern  Matron,  are 
equally  happy,  and  both  show  habits  of  mi 
nute  observation,  skill  in  character-writing, 


and  an  artist-like  power  of  grouping;  they 
are  also  pervaded  by  a  genial  tone,  and  a  love 
of  nature,  and  good  sense.  Her  other  works 
are,  Love's  Progress,  a  Tale ;  The  Poetry  of 
|  Travelling  in  the  United  States ;  Tales  and 
Ballads;  Stories  and  Poems  for  Children; 
and  Verses  of  a  Lifetime.  She  edited  for 
several  years,  in  Charleston,  a  literary  ga 
zette  called  The  Southern  Rose  ;  published  a 
collection  of  the  Letters  of  Eliza  Wilkinson, 
a  heroine  of  the  Revolution  ;  and  illustrated 
the  extent  of  her  reading  in  poetical  liter 
ature,  by  two  ingenious  volumes,  entitled 
Oracles  from  the  Poets,  and  The  Sybil. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Oilman  are  nearly 
all  contained  in  Verses  of  a  Lifetime,  just 
issued  (at  the  close  of  the  year  1848)  by 
James  Munroe  &  Company,  of  Boston.  They 
abound  in  expressions  of  wise,  womanly  feel 
ing,  and  are  frequently  marked  by  a  graceful 
elegance  of  manner. 


ROSALIE. 

'T^is  fearful  to  watch  by  a  dying  friend, 

Though  luxury  glistens  null; 
Though  the  pillow  of  down  be  softly  spread 

Where  the  throbbing  temples  lie— 
Though  the  loom's  pure  fabric  enfold  the  form, 

^  Though  the  shadowy  curtains  flow, 
Though  the  feet  on  sumptuous  carpets  tread 

As  "  lightly  as  snow  on  snow" 

Though  the  perfumed  air  as  a  garden  teems 

With  flowers  of  healthy  bloom, 
And  the  feathery  fan  just  stirs  the  breeze 

In  the  cool  and  guarded  room 

Though  the  costly  cup  for  the  fevered  lip 

With  grateful  cordial  flows, 
While  the  watching  eye  and  the  warning  hand 

1  reserve  the  snatched  repose. 
Yes,  even  with  these  appliances, 
^Fmin  wealth's  unmeasured  store, 
Tii  fearful  to  watch  the  spirit's  flight 

To  its  dim  and  distant  shore. 
But  oh,  when  the  f,,r.n  that  we  love  is  laid 

On  Poverty's  chilly  bed, 
When  roughly  the  blast  to  the  shivering  limbs 

I  urough  crevice  and  pane  is  sped— 
Whon  the  noonday  sun  comes  streaming  in 

Un  HIP  dun  or  burning  eye, 


And  the  heartless  laugh  and  the  worldly  tread 
Is  heard  from  the  passers  by 

When  the  sickly  lip  for  a  pleasant  draught 

To  us  in  vain  upturns, 
And  the  aching  head  on  a  pillow  hard 

In  restless  fever  burns 

When  night  rolls  on,  and  we  gaze  in  wo 

On  the  candle's  lessening  ray, 
And  grope  about  in  the  midnight  gloom, 

And  long  for  the  breaking  day— 

Or  bless  the  moon  as  her  silver  torch 
Sheds  light  on  our  doubtful  hand, 

When  pouring  the  drug  which  a  moment  wresta 
1  he  soul  from  the  spirit-land 

When  we  know  that  sickness  of  soul  and  heart 

W  nich  sensitive  bosoms  feel 
When  helpless,  hopeless,  we  needs  must  gaze 

Un  woes  we  can  not  heal : 

This,  this  is  the  crown  of  bitterness ! 

And  we  pray,  as  the  loved  one  dies, 
That  our  breath  may  pass  with  their  waning  pulse, 

And  with  theirs  close  our  aching  eyes. 
My  story  tells  of  sweet  Rosalie, 

Once  a  maiden  of  joy  and  delight, 
A  ray  of  love,  from  her  girlish  days, 

To  her  parents'  devoted  sight. 
52 


CAROLINE    OILMAN. 


The  girl  was  free  as  the  river  wave 

That  dances  to  ocean's  rest, 
And  life  looked  down  like  a  summer's  sun 

On  her  pure  and  gentle  breast. 

She  saw  young  Arthur — their  happy  hearts 
Like  two  young  streamlets  shone, 

That  leap  along  on  their  mountain  path, 
Then  mingle  their  waters  as  one. 

They  parted :  he  roved  to  western  wilds 

To  seek  for  his  bird  a  nest, 
And  Rosalie  dwelt  in  her  father's  halls, 

And  folded  her  wings  to  rest. 

But  her  father  died,  and  a  fearful  blight 
O'er  his  child  and  his  widow  fell — 

They  sunk  from  that  day  in  the  gloomy  abys.? 
Where  sorrow  and  poverty  dwell. 

Consumption  came,  and  he  whispered  low 

To  the  widow  of  early  death ; 
He  hastened  the  beat  of  her  constant  pulse, 

And  baffled  the  coming  breath. 

He  preyed  on  the  bloom  of  her  still  soft  cheek, 
And  shrivelled  her  hand  of  snow  ; 

He  checked  her  step  in  its  easy  glide, 
And  her  eye  beamed  a  restless  glow. 

He  choked  her  voice  in  its  morning  song, 

And  stifled  its  evening  lay, 
And  husky  and  coarse  rose  her  midnight  hymn 

As  she  lay  on  her  pillow  to  pray. 

Poor  Rosalie  rose  by  the  dawning  light, 

And  sat  by  the  midnight  oil ; 
But  the  pittance  was  fearfully  small  that  came 

By  her  morning  and  evening  toil. 

'T  was  then  in  her  lodging  the  night-wind  came 
Through  crevice  and  broken  pane ; 

'Twas  there  that  the  early  sunbeam  burst 
With  its  glaring  and  burning  train. 

When  Rosalie  sat  by  her  mother's  side, 
She  smothered  her  heart's  affright, 

And  essayed  to  smile,  though  the  monster  Want 
Stood  haggard  and  wan  in  her  sight. 

She  pressed  her  feet  on  the  cold  damp  floor, 
And  crushed  her  hands  on  her  heart, 

Or  stood  like  a  statue  so  still  and  pale, 
Lest  a  tear  or  a  cry  should  start. 

Her  household  goods  went  one  by  one 

To  purchase  their  scanty  fare; 
And  even  the  little  mirror  was  sold 

Where  she  parted  her  glossy  hair. 

Then  hunger  glared  in  her  full  blue  eye, 
And  was  heard  in  her  tremulous  tone; 

And  she  longed  for  the  crust  that  the  beggar  eats, 
As  he  sits  by  the  wayside  stone. 

The  neighbors  gave  of  their  scanty  store, 
But  their  jealous  children  scowled  ; 

And  the  eager  dog,  that  guarded  the  street, 
Looked  on  the  morsel  and  howled. 

Then  her  mother  died — 'twas  a  blessed  thing  J 
For  the  last  faint  embers  had  gone 

On  the  chilly  hearth,  and  the  candle  was  out 
As  Rosalie  watched  for  the  dawn. 


'Twas  a  blessed  exchange  from  thisdark,co'.d  earth 
To  those  bright  and  blossoming  bowers, 

Where  the  spirit  roves  in  its  robes  of  light 
And  gathers  immortal  flowers  ! 

Poor  Rosalie  lay  on  her  mother's  breast, 
Though  its  fluttering  breath  was  o'er. 

And  eagerly  pressed  her  passive  hand. 
Which  returned  the  pressure  no  more. 

In  darkness  she  closed  the  fixing  eyes, 
And  saw  not  the  deathly  glare — 

Then  straightened  the  warm  and  flaccid  limbs 
With  a  wild  and  fearful  care. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  the  morrow  broke 
On  the  night  that  her  mother  died, 

Poor  Rosalie  sank  from  her  long,  long  watch, 
In  sleep  by  her  mother's  side. 

'T  was  a  sorrowful  sight  for  the  neighbors  to  see, 
(When  they  woke  from  their  kindlier  rest,) 

The  beautiful  girl,  with  her  innocent  face, 
Asleep  on  the  corpse's  breast. 

Her  hair  flowed  about  by  her  mother's  side, 
And  her  hand  on  the  dead  hand  fell ; 

Yet  her  breathing  was  light  as  the  lily's  roll, 
When  waved  by  the  ripple's  swell. 

There  was  surely  a  vision  of  heaven's  delight 

Haunting  her  exquisite  rest, 
For  she  smiled  in  her  sleep  such  a  heavenly  smile 

As  could  only  beam  out  from  the  blest. 

'T  was  fearful  as  beautiful :  and  as  they  gazed, 
The  neighbors  stood  whispering  low,  [dead, 

Nor  dared  they  remove  her  white  arm  from  the 
Where  it  seemed  in  its  fondness  to  grow. 

Life  is  not  always  a  darkling  dream  : 

God  loves  our  sad  waking  to  bless — 
More  brightly,  perchance,  for  the  dreary  shade 

That  heralds  our  happiness. 
A  stranger  stands  by  that  humble  door, 

A  youth  in  the  flush  of  life, 
And  sudden  hope  in  his  thoughtful  glance 

Seems  with  sorrow  and  care  at  strife. 
Manly  beauty  and  soul-formed  grace 

Stand  forth  in  each  movement  fair, 
And  speak  in  the  turn  of  his  well-timed  step, 

And  shine  in  his  wavy  hair. 
With  travel  and  watchfulness  worn  was  he, 

Yet  there  beamed  on  his  open  brow 
Traces  of  faith  and  integrity, 

Where  conscience  had  stamped  her  vow. 
'T  was  Arthur :  he  gazed  on  those  two  pale  forms, 

Soon  one  was  clasped  to  his  heart ; 
In  piercing  accents  he  called  her  name — 

That  voice  made  the  life-blood  start ! 
Not  on  the  dead  doth  she  ope  her  eves — 

Life,  love,  spread  their  living  wings ; 
And  she  rests  on  her  lover's  breast  as  a  child 

To  its  nursing  mother  clings. 
A  pure  white  tomb  in  the  near  graveyard 

Betokens  the  widow's  rest, 
But  Arthur  has  gone  to  his  for»«t-home, 

And  shelters  his  dove  in  his  nebt. 


CAROLINE    OILMAN. 


THE  PLANTATION. 

FAUKWKLL,  awhile,  the  city's  hum, 

Where  busy  footsteps  fall, 
And  welcome  fo  inv  \ve:irv  eye 

The  planter's  friendly  hall. 

Here  let  me  rise  at  early  dawn, 
And  list  the  mockbird's  lay, 

That,  warbling  ii(>ar  our  lowland  home, 
Sits  on  the  waving  spray. 

Then  tread  'the  shading  avenue 

Beneath  tin-  cedar's  ulooin, 
Or  gum  tree,  with  its  flickered  shade, 

Or  chinq uapen's  perfume. 

The  myrtle  tree,  the  orange  wild, 

The  cypress'  flexile  bough, 
The  holly  with  its  polished  leaves, 

Are  all  before  me  now. 

There,  towering  with  imperial  pride, 

The  rich  magnolia  stands, 
And  here,  in  softer  loveliness, 

The  white-bloomed  bay  expands. 

The  long  gray  moss  hangs  gracefully, 

Idly  I  twine  its  wreaths, 
Or  stop  to  catch  the  fragrant  air 

The  frequent  blossom  breathes. 

Life  wakes  around — the  red  bird  darts 
Like  flame  from  tree  to  tree ; 

The  whip-poor-will  complains  alone, 
The  robin  whistles  free. 

The  frightened  hare  scuds  by  my  path, 
And  seeks  the  thicket  nigh ; 

The  squirrel  climbs  the  hickory  bough, 
Thence  peeps  with  careful  eye. 

The  hummingbird,  with  busy  wing, 

In  rainbow  beauty  moves, 
Above  the  trumpet-blossom  floats, 

And  sips  the  tube  he  loves. 

Triumphant  to  yon  withered  pine 

The  soaring  eagle  flies, 
There  builds  her  eyrv  mid  the  clouds, 

And  man  and  heaven  defies. 
The  hunter's  bugle  echoes  near, 

And  see — his  weary  train, 
With  mingled  bowlings,  scent  the  woods 

Or  scour  the  open  plain. 

Yon  skiff  is  darting  from  the  cove, 

And  list  the  negro's  song — 
The  theme,  his  owner  and  his  boat — 

While  glide  the  crew  along. 

And  when  the  leading  voice  is  lost, 

Receding  from  the  shore, 
His  brother  boatmen  swell  the  strain, 

In  chorus  with  the  oar. 

There  stands  the  dairy  on  the  stream, 
Within  the  broad  oak's  shade; 

The  white  pails  glitter  in  the  sun, 
In  rustic  pomp  arrayed. 

ADI!  she  stands  smiling  at  the  door, 
Who  "minds"  that  titilki/  way — 


She  smooths  her  apron  as  I  pass, 
And  loves  the  praise  I  pay. 

Welcome  to  me  her  sable  hands, 
When  in  the  noontide  heat, 

Within  the  polished  calibash, 
She  pours  the  pearly  treat. 

The  poulterer's  feathered,  tender  charge, 

Feed  on  the  grassy  plain  ; 
Her  Afric  brow  lights  up  with  smiles, 

Proud  of  her  noisy  train. 

Nor  does  the  herdman  view  his  flock 

With  unadmiring  gaze, 
Significant  are  all  their  names, 

Won  by  their  varying  ways. 

Forth  from  the  negroes'  humble  huts 
The  laborers  now  have  gone ; 

But  some  remain,  diseased  and  old — 
Do  they  repine  alone  1 

Ah,  no :  the  nurse,  with  practised  skill, 
That  sometimes  shames  the  wise, 

Prepares  the  herb  of  potent  power, 
And  healing  aid  applies. 

On  sunny  banks  the  children  play, 

Or  wind  the  fisher's  line, 
Or,  with  the  dexterous  fancy  braid, 

The  willow  baskets  twine. 

Long  ere  the  sloping  sun  departs 

The  laborers  quit  the  field, 
And,  housed  within  their  sheltering  huts 

To  careless  quiet  yield. 

But  see  yon  wild  and  lurid  clouds, 

That  rush  in  contact  strong, 
And  hear  the  thunder,  peal  on  peal, 

Reverberate  along. 
The  cattle  stand  and  mutely  gaze, 

The  birds  instinctive  fly, 
While  forked  flashes  rend  the  air, 

And  light  the  troubled  sky. 
Behold  yon  sturdy  forest  pine, 

Whose  green  top  points  to  heaven — 
A  flash  !  its  firm,  encasing  bark 

By  that  red  shock  is  riven. 
But  we,  the  children  of  the  South, 

Shrink  not  with  trembling  fears ; 
The  storm,  familiar  to  our  youth, 

Will  spare  our  ripened  years. 
We  know  its  fresh,  reviving  charm, 

And,  like  the  flower  and  bird, 
Our  looks  and  voices,  in  each  pause, 

With  grateful  joy  are  stirred. 
And  now  the  tender  rice  upshoots, 

Fresh  in  its  hue  of  green, 
Spreading  its  emerald  carpet  far, 

Beneath  the  sunny  sheen  ; 
Though  when  the  softer,  ripened  hue 

Of  autumn's  changes  rise, 
The  rustling  spires  instinctive  lift 

Their  gold  seeds  to  the  skies. 

There  the  young  cotton-plant  unfolds 
Its  leaves  of  sickly  hue, 


CAROLINE    OILMAN. 


But  soon  advancing  to  its  growth, 
Looks  up  with  beauty  too. 

And,  as  midsummer  suns  prevail, 

Upon  its  blossoms  glow 
Commingling  hues,  like  sunset  rays — 

Then  bursts  its  sheeted  snow. 

How  shall  we  fly  this  lovely  spot, 

Where  rural  joys  prevail — 
The  social  board,  the  eager  chase, 

Gay  dance,  and  rnerry  tale  1 

Alas  !  our  youth  must  leave  their  sports, 
When  spring-time  ushers  May  ; 

Our  maidens  quit  the  planted  flower, 
Just  blushing  into  day — 

Or,  all  beneath  yon  rural  mound, 
Where  rest  th'  ancestral  dead, 

By  mourning  friends,  with  severed  hearts, 
Unconscious  w^ill  be  led. 

Oh,  southern  summer,  false  and  fair ! 

Why,  from  thy  loaded  wing, 
Blent  with  rich  flowers  and  fruitage  rare, 

The  seeds  of  sorrow  fling  1 


MUSIC  ON  THE  CANAL. 

I  WAS  weary  with  the  daylight, 

I  was  weary  with  the  shade, 
And  my  heart  became  still  sadder 

As  the  stars  their  light  betrayed ; 
I  sickened  at  the  ripple, 

As  the  lazy  boat  went  on, 
And  felt  as  though  a  friend  was  lost, 

When  the  twilight  ray  was  gone. 

The  meadows,  in  a  firefly  glow, 
Looked  gay  to  happy  eyes  : 

To  me  they  beamed  but  mournfully, 
My  heart  was  cold  with  sighs. 

They  seemed,  indeed,  like  summer  friends- 
Alas  !  no  warmth  had  they  ; 

I  turned  in  sorrow  from  their  glare, 
Impatient  turned  away. 

And  tear-drops  gathered  in  my  eyes, 

And  rolled  upon  my  cheek, 
And  when  the  voice  of  mirth  was  heard, 

I  had  no  heart  to  speak  : 
I  longed  to  press  my  children 

To  my  sad  and  homesick  breast, 
And  feel  the  constant  hand  of  love 

Caressing  and  caressed. 

And  slowly  went  my  languid  pulse, 

As  the  slow  canal-boat  goes, 
And  I  felt  the  pain  of  weariness, 

And  sighed  for  home's  repose  ; 
And  laughter  seemed  a  mockery, 

And  joy  a  fleeting  breath, 
And  life  a  dark,  volcanic  crust, 

That  crumbles  over  death. 

But  a  strain  of  sweetest  melody 

Arose  upon  my  ear, 
The  blessed  sound  of  woman's  voice^, 

That  angels  love  to  hear  ! 


And  manly  strains  of  tenderness 
Were  mingled  with  the  song — 

A  father's  with  his  daughter's  notes, 
The  gentle  with  the  strong. 

And  my  thoughts  began  to  soften, 

Like  snows  when  waters  fall, 
And  open  as  the  frost-closed  buds, 

When  spring's  young  breezes  call ; 
While  to  my  faint  and  weary  soul 

A  better  hope  was  given, 
And  all  once  more  was  bright  with  faith, 

'Twixt  heart,  and  earth,  and  Heaven. 


THE  CONGRESSIONAL  BURYIXG-GROUND 

THE  pomp  of  death  was  there — 
The  lettered  urn,  the  classic  marble  rose, 
And  coldly,  in  magnificent  repose, 

Stood  out  the  column  fair. 

The  hand  of  art  was  seen 

Throwing  the  wild  flowers  from  the  gravelled  walk, 
The  sweet  wild  flowers,  that  hold  their  quiet  talk 

Upon  the  uncultured  green. 

And  now  perchance,  a  bird, 
Hiding  amid  the  trained  and  scattered  trees, 
Sent  forth  his  carol  on  the  scentless  breeze — 

But  they  were  few  I  heard. 

Did  my  heart's  pulses  beat  ] 
And  did  mine  eye  o'erflow  with  sudden  tears, 
Such  as  gush  up  mid  memories  of  years, 

When  humbler  graves  we  meet  1 

An  humbler  grave  I  met, 
On  the  Potomac's  leafy  banks,  when  May, 
Weaving  spring  flowers,  stood  out  in  colors  gay, 

With  her  young  coronet : 

A  lonely,  nameless  grave, 

Stretching  its  length  beneath  th'  o'erarching  trees, 
Which  told  a  plaintive  story,  as  the  breeze 

Came  their  new  buds  to  wave. 

But  the  lone  turf  was  green 
As  that  which  gathers  o'er  more  honored  forms ; 
Nor  with  more  harshness  had  the  wintry  stonns 

Swept  o'er  that  woodland  scene. 

The  flower  and  springing  blade 
Looked  upward  with  their  young  and  shining  i-yes, 
And  met  the  sunlight  of  the  happy  skies, 

And  that  low  turf  arrayed. 

And  unchecked  birds  sang  out 
The  chorus  of  their  spring-time  jubilee 
And  gentle  happiness  it  was  to  me, 

To  list  their  music-shout. 

And  to  that  stranger-grave 
The  tribute  of  enkindling  thoughts — the  free 
And  unbought  power  of  natural  sympathy 

Passing,  I  sadly  gave. 

And  a  religious  spell 

On  that  lone  mound,  by  man  deserted,  rose— 
A  conscious  presence  from  on  high,  which  glows 

Not  where  the  worldly  dwell. 


56 


CAROLINE    OILMAN. 


TO   THE  URSUL1NE3. 

OH,  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  sky  above — your  quiet  bark 

By  soft  winds  blest ! 

Still  toil  in  duty,  and  commune  with  Heaven, 

World-weaned  and  free ; 
God  to  his  humblest  creatures  room  has  given 

And  space  to  be. 

Space  for  the  eagle  in  the  vaulted  sky 

To  plume  his  wing — 
Space  for  the  ringdove  by  her  young  to  lie, 

And  softly  sing. 

Space  for  the  sunflower,  bright  with  yellow  glow, 

To  court  the  sky — 
Space  for  the  violet,  where  the  wild  woods  grow, 

To  live  and  die. 

Space  for  the  ocean,  in  its  giant  might, 

To  swell  and  rave — 
Space  for  the  river,  tinged  with  rosy  light, 

Where  green  banks  wave. 

Space  for  the  sun  to  tread  his  path  in  might 

And  golden  pride — 
Space  for  the  glow-worm,  calling,  by  her  light, 

Love  to  her  side. 

Then,  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  skies  above,  and  your  still  bark 

By  kind  winds  blest. 


RETURN  TO  MASSACHUSETTS. 

THE  martin's  nest — the  simple  nest ! 

I  see  it  swinging  high, 
Just  as  it  stood  in  distant  years, 

Above  my  gazing  eye  ; 
But  many  a  bird  has  plumed  its  wing, 

And  lightly  flown  away, 
Or  drooped  his  little  head  in  death, 

Since  that — my  youthful  day  ! 

The  woodland  stream — the  pebbly  stream  ! 

It  gayly  flows  along, 
As  once  it  did  when  by  its  side 

I  sang  my  merry  sonu:: 
But  many  a  wave  has  rolled  afar, 

Beneath  the  summer  cloud, 
Since  by  its  bank  I  idly  poured 

My  childish  song  aloud. 


The  sweet-brier  rose — the  wayside  rose, 

Still  spreads  its  fragrant  arms, 
Where  graciously  lo  passing  eyes 

It  gave  its  simple  charms ; 
But  many  a  perfumed  breeze  has  passed, 

And  many  a  blossom  fair, 
Since  with  a  careless  heart  I  twined 

Its  green  wreaths  in  my  hair. 

The  barberry  bush — the  poor  man's  bush  ! 

Its  yellow  blossoms  hang, 
As  erst,  where  by  the  grassy  lane 

Along  I  lightly  sprang ; 
But  many  a  flower  has  come  and  gone, 

And  scarlet  berry  shone, 
Since  I,  a  school-girl  in  its  path, 

In  rustic  dance  have  flown. 


ANNIE  IN  THE  GRAVEYARD. 

SHE  bounded  o'er  the  graves, 
With  a  buoyant  step  of  mirth ; 
She  bounded  o'er  the  graves, 
Where  the  weeping  willow  waves, 
Like  a  creature  not  of  earth. 

Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 

And  her  eyes  were  glittering  bright; 

Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 

And  her  little  hands  spread  wide, 

With  an  innocent  delight. 

She  spelt  the  lettered  word 
That  registers  the  dead  ; 
She  spelt  the  lettered  word, 
And  her  busy  thoughts  were  stirred 
With  pleasure  as  she  read. 

She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf 
Left  fluttering  on  a  rose  ; 
She  stopped  and  culled  a  leaf, 
Sweet  monument  of  grief, 
That  in  our  churchyard  grows. 

She  culled  it  with  a  smile — 
'T  was  near  her  sister's  mound  : 
She  culled  it  with  a  smile, 
And  played  with  it  awhile, 
Then  scattered  it  around. 

I  did  not  chill  her  heart, 
Nor  turn  its  gush  to  tears ; 
I  did  not  chill  her  heart — 
•Oh,  bitter  drops  will  start 
Full  soon  in  coming  years. 


SARAH   J.    HALE. 


(Born  17 

SARAH  JOSEPHA  BCJELL,  now  Mrs.  HALE,  | 
was  born  in  1795  at  Newport  in  New  Hamp-  | 
shire,  whither  her  parents  had  removed  soon 
after  the  close  of  the  Revolution,  from  Say- 
brook  in  Connecticut.  There  were  then  few  j 
schools  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  per-  | 
haps  none  from  which  the  parents  of  Miss  Bu- 
ell  would  have  sought  for  her  more  than  the 
most  elementary  instruction.  Her  mother, 
however,  was  a  woman  of  considerable  cul 
tivation,  and  of  a  fine  understanding  ;  she  at 
tended  carefully  to  the  education  of  her  chil 
dren,  and  the  studies  of  our  author  which  she 
could  not  direct  were  afterward  guided  by  a 
brother,  who  graduated  at  Dartmouth  college 
in  1809,  and  was  a  good  classical  and  gen 
eral  scholar.  But  the  completion  t)f  her  ed 
ucation  was  deferred  until  af.er  her  marriage, 
which  took  place  about  the  year  1814.  Her 
husband,  Mr.  David  Hale,  was  an  accom 
plished  lawyer,  well  read  in  the  best  litera 
ture,  and  anxious  for  the  thorough  develop 
ment  of  her  abilities,  of  which  he  had  formed 
a  high  estimate.  "We  commenced, "writes 
Mrs.  Hale,  "  immediately  after  our  marriage, 
a  system  of  study,  which  we  pursued  togeth 
er,  with  few  interruptions,  and  these  una 
voidable,  during  his  life.  The  hours  we 
allotted  for  this  purpose  were  from  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening  till  ten.  In  this  man 
ner  we  studied  French,  botany  —  then  almost 
a  new  science  in  this  country,  but  for  which 
my  husband  had  an  uncommon  taste  —  and 
obtained  some  knowledge  of  mineralogy,  ge 
ology,  &c.,  besides  pursuing  a  long  and  in 
structive  course  of  miscellaneous  reading." 

Mr.  Hale  died  suddenly  in  September,  1822, 
having  been  married  about  eight  years,  du 
ring  which  he  had  been  eminently  successful 
in  attaining  to  professional  eminence,  but 
without  having  yet  secured  even  the  basis 
of  a  fortune.  Mrs.  Hale  was  a  Avidow  and 
was  poor,  and  after  the  strongest  feelings  of 
sorrow  had  subsided,  and  the  affairs  of  her  de 
ceased  husband  had  been  settled,  she  formed 
plans  for  tbe  support  and  education  of  hei 
family,  which  she  subsequently  executed 
with  an  energy  and  perseverance  which 


command  admiration,  and  which  with  her 
powers  could  not  fail  of  success.  Literature, 
which  had  hitherto  been  cultivated  for  its 
own  reward,  became  now  her  profession  and 
only  means  of  support. 

The  first  publication  of  Mrs.  Hale  was 
The  Genius  of  Oblivion,  and  other  Original 
Poems,  printed  at  Concord  in  1823.  The 
Genius  of  Oblivion  is  a  descriptive  story  in 
about  fifteen  hundred  octosyllabic  lines- 
founded  upon  a  tradition  of  the  aboriginal 
settlement  of  this  country.  At  the  close  of 
the  poem  is  an  intimation  of  a  half-formed 
design  to  write  a  sequel  to  it.  She  says  : 

And  hence  Columbia's  first  inhabitants — 
The  authors  of  these  Monuments  of  Old  : 

And  their  destruction,  I  may  sing,  perchance, 
If  haply  this,  my  tale,  so  featly  told, 

Escape  Medusan  critics'  withering  glance, 
And  in  my  country's  favor  live  enrolled, 

As  not  unworthy  of  her  smile :  but  this, 
A  hope  I  may  but  cherish,  or — dismiss. 
Her  next  work,  hoAvever,  was  Northwood, 
a  Tale  of  New  England,  in  two  volumes, 
published  in  Boston  in  1827.  Her  object  in 
this  novel  is  to  illustrate  common  life  among 
the  descendants  of  the  Puritans,  and  she  un 
doubtedly  succeeded  in  sketching  with  spirit 
and  singular  fidelity  the  forms  of  society  with 
which  she  was  acquainted  by  observation. 
The  doctor,  the  deacon,  the  family  of  the 
squire,  and  other  village  characters,  are  most 
natural  and  truthful  delineations-.  But  North- 
wood  evinces  little  of  the  constructive  fac 
ulty,  and  only  its  portraitures  that  have  been 
referred  to  can  be  much  commended. 

In  1828  Mrs.  Hale  removed  to  Boston  to 
conduct  the  American  Ladies'  Magazine,  a 
monthly  miscellany  established  at  that  lime, 
and  edited  by  her  for  about  nine  years.  IL 
this  work  were  originally  published  many 
of  the  prose  compositions  which  were  sub 
sequently  issued  in  two  separate  volumes 
under  the  titles  of  Sketches  of  American 
Character,  and  Traits  of  American  Life  In 
the  same  period  she  published  Flora's  Inter 
preter,  The  Lady 's  Wreath,  and  several  srnalJ 
books  for  children.  She  remained  in  Boston 
until  1838,  when  she  removed  to  Philncl*" 


SARAH   J.   HALE. 


phia?  where  she  has  since  resided,  as  edito 
of  the  Lady's  Book,  one  of  the  most  popula. 
and  widely-circulated  literary  periodicals  in 
the  English  language. 

In  1846  Mrs.  Hale  published  a  poem  more 
remarkable  than  any  other  she  has  written 
for  a  certain  delicacy  of  fancy  and  expres 
sion,  under  the  name  of  Alice  Ray  ;  and  in 
1848  appeared  her  Three  Hours,  or  the  Vigii 
of  Love,  and  other  Poems,  a  collection  in 
which  Alice  Ray  is  included,  and  upon  which 
altogether  must  rest  her  best  literary  repu 
tation.  Three  Hours,  or  the  Vigil  of  Love, 
is  very  much  in  the  style  of  some  of  the  more 
fantastic  stories  of  Winthrop  Mack  worth 
Praed.  The  heroine  has  fled  with  her  lover, 
an  escaped  slate  prisoner,  from  England  to 
Boston,  and  the  interest  of  the  poem  arises 
from  the  effective  manner  in  which,  while 
she  is  waiting  his  return,  in  a  stormy  night, 
her  fears  are  awakened,  and  by.  a  vivid  rec 
ollection  of  tales  of  horror  heightened  to  an 
indescribable  dread. 

It  was  two  hundred  years  ago, 

When  moved  the  world  so  very  slow, 

And  when  the  wide  Atlantic  sea 

Appeared  like  an  eternity. 

The  following  scene,  from  ghostly  stories 
she  heard  in  childhood,  is  among  the  phan 
tasms  by  which  she  is  haunted,  and  it  ex 
hibits  in  a  favorable  light  Mrs.  Kale's  ca 
pabilities  in  this  line  of  art: 
Once  a  holy  man  was  set 
Watching  where  the  witches  met. 
Open  Bible,  naked  sword — 
And  three  candles  on  the  board — 
There  the  godly  man  was  set 
Watching  whore  the  witches  met ; 
Knowing  well  his  dreadful  doom, 
Should  they  drive  him  from  the  room. 

The  candles  three  were  burning  bright, 
The  sword  was  (lashing  back  the  light, 
As  it  struck  the  deep  midnight; 
While  the  holy  book  he  read, ' 
And  all  was  still  as  are  the  dead. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  roar 
Like  breakers  on  a  rocky  shore, 
When  the  ocean's  thundering  boom 
Knells  the  mariner  to  his  tomb. 
The  good  man  felt  the  struggling  strife, 
As  the  ship  went  down  with  its  load  of  life  ! 
His  seat  was  shaken  by  the  roar, 
And  upward  seemed  to  rise  the  floor! 
While  round  and  round,  as  eddies  hurl, 
The  room  and  table  seemed  to  whirl ! 
Yet  still  the  holy  book  read  he, 
And  /.raved  for  tnose  who  sail  the  sea. 


Then  came  a  shrieking,  wild  and  high, 
As  when  flames  are  bursting  nigh, 
And  their  blood  has  stained  the  sky  ! 
"  Fly  !  fly  !  fly  !"  in  a  strangling  cry, 
Was  hoarsely  rattled  on  his  ear — 
While  the  crackling  flames  came  near ! 
And  sti.l  the  holy  book  read  he, 
And  prayed  for  those  where  fires  might  be. 

And  then  appeared  a  sight  of  dread: 
The  roof  was  opened  above  his  head ; 
He  saw,  in  the  far-off,  dusky  view, 
A  bloody  hand  and  an  arm  come  through  ! — 
The  lady  seemed  to  see  them  too. 

At  the  close  of  the  third  hour  the  husband 
is  restored,  and  all  these  fearful  shadows  are 
dispelled.  The  plot  is  simple  and  the  exe 
cution  of  the  poem  generally  finished  ;  but 
its  effect  is  marred  by  the  introduction  of 
some  needless  reflections  and  by  occasional 
changes  of  the  rhythm. 

Among  the  published  works  of  Mrs.  Hale 
is  Ormond  Grosvenor,  a  Tragedy,  in  Five 
Acts,  founded  upon  the  celebrated  case  of 
Colonel  Isaac  Hayne,  the  revolutionary  mar 
tyr  of  South  Carolina.  This  Avas  printed  in 
1838,  but  it  has  since  heen  partly  re- written 
and  very  much  improved.  In  1848  she  gave 
to  the  public  Harry  Guy,  a  Story  of  the  Sea, 
in  nearly  three  thousand  lines  of  most  com 
pact  versification.  Her  long  and  elabora  te  po 
ems  entitled  Felicia,  and  The  Rhime  of  Life, 
appear  from  some  extracts  that  have  been 
printed,  to  possess  more  impassioned  earnest 
ness  than  her  other  compositions,  and  they 
contain  perhaps  the  clearest  expressions  of 
ler  intellectual  and  social  character. 

Mrs.  Hale  has  a  ready  command  of  pure 
.nd  idiomatic  English,  and  her  style  has  fre 
quently  a  masculine  strength   and  energy. 
She  has  not  much  creative  power,  but  she 
excels  in  the  aggregation  and  artistical  dis 
position  of  common  and  appropriate  image- 
y.     She  has  evidently  been  all  her  life  a 
tudent,  and   there  has  been    a  perceptible 
ind  constant  improvement  in  her  writings 
:ver  since  her  first  appearance  as  an  author. 
Besides  her  works  that  have   been  pub- 
ished  in  separate  volumes,  she  has  written 
very  large  number  of  tales,  sketches,  es- 
ays,  criticisms,  poems,  and  other  composi- 
ions,  which  are  scattered  through  the  vari- 
us  periodicals  with  which  she  has  been  con- 
ected.     They  are  all  indicative  of  sound 
rinciples,  and  of  kindness,  knowledge,  and 
udgment. 


SARAH   J.   HALE. 


THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

MONAUCH  of  rivers  in  the  wide  domain 
Where  Freedom  writes  her  signature  in  stars, 
And  bids  her  eagle  bear  the  blazing  scroll 
To  usher  in  the  reign  of  peace  and  love, 
Thou  mighty  Mississippi  ! — may  my  song 
Swell  with  thy  power,  and  though  an  humble  rill, 
Roll,  like  thy  current,  through  the  sea  of  time, 
Bearing  thy  name,  as  tribute  from  my  soul 
Of  fervent  gratitude  and  holy  praise, 
To  Him  who  poured  thy  multitude  of  waves. 

Shadowed  beneath  these  awful  piles  of  stone, 
Where  liberty  has  found  a  Pisgah  height, 
O'erlooking  all  the  land  she  loves  to  bless, 
The  jagged  rocks  and  icy  towers  her  guard, 
Whose  splintered  summits  seize  the  warring  clouds, 
And  roll  them,  broken,  like  a  host  o'erthrown, 
Adown  the  mountain's  side,  scattering  their  wealth 
Of  powdered  pearl  and  liquid  diamond  drops — 
There  is  thy  source,  great  river  of  the  west ! 

Slowly,  like  youthful  Titan  gathering  strength 
To  war  with  Heaven  and  win  himself  a  name, 
The  stream  moves  onward  through  the  dark  ravines, 
Rending  the  roots  of  over-arching  trees, 
To  form  its  narrow  channel,  where  the  star, 
That  fain  would  bathe  its  beauty  in  the  wave, 
Like  lover's  glance  steals  trembling  through  the 
That  veil  the  waters  with  a  vestal's  care  :     [leaves 
And  few  of  human  form  have  ventured  there, 
Save  the  swart  savage  in  his  bark  canoe. 

But  now  it  deepens,  struggles,  rushes  on; 
Like  goaded  war-horse,  bounding  o'er  the  foe, 
It  clears  the  rocks  it  may  not  spurn  aside, 
Leaping,  as  Curtius  leaped  adown  the  gulf, 
And  rising,  like  Antaeus  from  the  fall, 
Its  course  majestic  through  the  land  pursues, 
And  the  broad  river  o'er  the  valley  reigns  ! 

It  reigns  alone  :  the  tributary  streams 
Are  humble  vassals,  yielding  to  its  sway; 
And  when  the  wild  Missouri  fain  would  join 
A  rival  in  the  race — as  Jacob  seized 
On  his  red  brother's  birthright — even  so 
The  swelling  Mississippi  grasps  that  wave, 
And,  rebaptizing,  makes  the  waters  one. 

It  reigns  alone — and  earth  the  sceptre  feels : 
Her  ancient  trees  are  bowed  beneath  the  wave, 
Or,  rent  like  reeds  before  the  whirlwind's  swoop, 
Toss  on  the  bosom  of  the  maddened  flood, 
A  floating  forest,  till  the  waters,  calmed, 
Like  slumbering  anaconda  gorged  with  prey, 
Open  a  haven  to  the  moving  mass, 
Or  form  an  island  in  the  dark  abyss. 

It  reigns  alone  :  old  Nile  would  ne'er  bedew 
The  lands  it  blesses  with  ils  fertile  tide. 
Even  sacred  Ganges,  joined  with  Egypt's  flood, 
Would  shrink  beside  this  wonder  of  the  west ! 
Ay,  gather  Europe's  royal  rivers  all — 
The  snow-swelled  Neva,  with  an  empire's  weight 
On  her  broad  breast,  she  yet  may  overwhelm  ; 
Dark  Danube,  hurrying,  as  by  foe  pursued, 
Through  shaggy  forests  and  from  palace  walls, 
To  hide  its  terrors  in  a  sea  of  gloom  ; 
The  castled  Rhine,whose  vine-crowned  waters  flow, 
The  fount  of  fable  and  t  ;e  source  of  song  ; 


The  rushing  Rhone,  in  whose  cerulean  depths 
The  loving  sky  seems  wedded  with  the  wave ; 
The  yellow  Tiber,  choked  with  Roman  spoils, 
A  dying  miser  shrinking  'neath  his  gold  ; 
And  Seine,  where  Fashion  glasses  fairest  forms ; 
And  Thames,  that  bears  the  riches  of  the  world : 
Gather  their  waters  in  one  ocean  mass — 
Our  Mississippi,  rolling  proudly  on, 
Would  sweep  them  from  its  path,  or  swallow  up, 
Like  Aaron's  rod,  these  streams  of  fame  and  song  ! 

And  thus  the  peoples,  from  the  many  lands, 
Where  these  old  streams  are  household  memories, 
Mingle  beside  our  river,  and  are  one — 
And  join  to  swell  the  strength  of  Freedom's  tide, 
That  from  the  fount  of  Truth  is  flowing  on, 
To  sweep  earth's  thousand  tyrannies  away. 

How  wise,  how  wonderful  the  works  of  God ! 
And,  hallowed  by  his  goodness,  all  are  good. 
The  creeping  glow-worm,  the  careering  sun, 
Are  kindled  from  the  effluence  of  his  light ; 
The  ocean  and  the  acorn-cup  are  filled 
By  gushings  from  the  fountain  of  his  love. 
He  poured  the  Mississippi's  torrent  forth, 
And  heaved  its  tide  above  the  trembling  land — 
Grand  type  how  Freedom  lifts  the  citizen 
Above  the  subject  masses  of  the  world — • 
And  marked  the  limits  it  may  never  pass. 
Trust  in  his  promises,  and  bless  his  power, 
Ye  dwellers  on  its  banks,  and  be  at  peace. 

And  ye,  whose  way  is  on  this  warrior  wave, 
When  the  swoln  waters  heave  with  ocean's  might, 
And  storms  and  darkness  close  the  gate  of  heaven, 
And  the  frail  bark,  fire-driven,  bounds  quivering  on, 
As  though  it  rent  the  iron  shroud  of  night, 
And  struggled  with  the  demons  of  the  flood — 
Fear  nothing  !     He  who  shields  the  folded  flower, 
W'hen  tempests  rage,  is  ever  present  here. 
Lean  on  "  our  Father's"  breast  in  faith  and  prsyer 
And  sleep — his  arm  of  love  is  strong  to  save. 

Great  Source  of  being,  beauty,  light,  and  love 
Creator — Lord — the  waters  worship  thee  ! 
Ere  thy  creative  smile  had  sown  the  flowers — 
Ere  the  glad  hills  leaped  upward,  or  the  earth, 
WTith  swelling  bosom,  waited  for  her  child — 
Before  eternal  Love  had  lit  the  sun, 
Or  Time  had  traced  his  dial-plate  in  stars, 
The  joyful  anthem  of  the  waters  flowed : 
And  Chaos  like  a  frightened  felon  fled, 
While  on  the  deep  the  Holy  Spirit  moved. 

And  evermore  the  deep  has  worshipped  God; 
And  bards  and  prophets  tune  their  mystic  lyres. 
While  listening  to  the  music  of  the  floods. 
Oh,  could  I  catch  this  harmony  of  sounds, 
As  borne  on  dewy  wings  they  float  to  heaven, 
And  blend  their  meaning  with  my  closing  strain  . 

Hark  !  as  a  reed-harp  thrilled  by  whispering  winds, 
Or  naiad  murmurs  from  a  pearl-lipped  shell, 
It  comes — the  melody  of  many  waves  ! 
And  loud,  with  Freedom's  world-awaking  note, 
The  deep-toned  Mississippi  leads  the  choir. 
The  pure,  sweet  fountains  chant  of  heavenly  hope 
The  chorus  of  the  nfis  is  household  love ; 
The  rivers  roll  their  song  of  social  joy  ; 
And  ocean's  organ  voice  is  sounding  forth 
The  hymn  of  Universal  Brotherhood  ! 


fiO 


SARAH   J.   HALE. 


Till-:  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER. 


vigdniu  i 


teachings  would  we  heed." 


THKHE  knelt  beneath  the  tulip  tree 

A  maiden  fair  and  young; 
The  flowers  overhead  bloomed  gorgeously, 

As  though  by  rainbows  flung, 
And  all  around  were  daisies  bright, 
And  pansies  with  their  eyes  of  light; 
Like  gold  the  sun-kissed  crocus  shone, 
With  Beauty's  smiles  the  earth  seemed  strown, 
And  Love's  warm  incense  filled  the  air, 
While  the  fair  girl  was  kneeling  there. 

In  vain  the  flowers  may  woo  around — 

Their  charms  she  does  not  see, 
For  she  a  dearer  prize  has  found 

Beneath  the  tulip  tree : 
A  little  four-leaved  clover,  green 
As  robes  that  grace  the  fairy  queen, 
And  fresh  as  hopes  of  early  youth, 
When  life  is  love,  and  love  is  truth — 
A  talisman  of  constant  love 
This  humble  clover  sure  will  prove  ! 
And  on  her  heart  that  gentle  maid 
The  severed  leaves  has  pressed, 
Which  through  the  coming  night's  dark  shade 
Beneath  her  cheek  will  rest : 

Then  precious  dreams  of  one  will  rise, 

Like  Love's  own  star  in  morning  skies, 

So  sweetly  bright,  we  would  the  day 

His  glowing  chariot  might  delay. 
What  tones  of  pure  and  tender  thought 

Those  simple  leaves  to  her  have  taught ' 

Of  old  the  sacred  misletoe 
The  Druid's  altar  bound  ; 

The  Roman  hero's  haughty  brow 
The  fadeless  laurel  crowned. 

Dark  superstition's  sway  is  past, 

And  war's  red  star  is  waning  fast, 

Nor  misletoe  nor  laurel  hold 

The  mystic  language  breathed  of  old ; 

For  nature's  life  no  power  can  give, 

To  bid  the  false  and  selfish  live. 

But  still  the  olive-leaf  imparts, 
As  when,  dove-borne,  at  first, 

It  taught  heaven's  lore  to  human 'hearts 

Its  hope,  and  joy,  and  trust ; 

Nor  deem  the  faith  from  folly  springs, 

Which  innocent  enjoyment  brings; 

Better  from  earth  root  every  flower, 

Than  crush  imagination's  power, 

fn  true  and  loving  minds,  to  raise 

An  Eden  for  their  coming  days. 

As  on  each  rock,  where  plants  can  cling, 

'''he  sunshine  will  be  shed 

As  from  the  tiniest  star-lit  spring 

The  ocean's  depth's  are  fed 

Thus  hopes  will  rise,  if  love's  clear  ray 
Keep  warm  and  bright  life's  rock-strewn  way  • 
And  from  small,  daily  joys,  distilled, 
The  heart's  deep  fount  of  peace  is  filled  : 
Oh,  blest  when  Fancy's  ray  is  given, 
Like  the  ethereal  spark,  from  Heaven  ! 


DESCRIPTION  OF  ALICE  RAY. 

THE  birds  their  love-notes  warble 

Among  the  blossomed  trees; 
The  flowers  are  sighing  forth  their  sweeta 

To  wooing  honeybees ; 
The  glad  brook  o'er  a  pebbly  floor 

Goes  dancing  on  its  way — 
But  not  a  thing  is  so  like  spring 

As  happy  Alice  Ray. 

An  only  child  was  Alice, 

And,  like  the  blest  above, 
The  gentle  maid  had  ever  breathed 

An  atmosphere  of  love ; 
Her  father's  smile  like  sunshine  came, 

Like  dew  her  mother's  kiss ; 
Their  love  and  goodness  made  her  home, 

Like  heaven,  the  place  of  bliss. 

Beneath  such  lender  training 

The  joyous  child  had  sprung, 
Like  one  bright  flower,  in  wild-wood  bower 

And  gladness  round  her  flung  ; 
And  all  who  met  her  blessed  her, 

And  turned  again  to  pray, 
That  grief  and  care  might  ever  spare 

The  happy  Alice  Rray. 

The  gift  that  made  her  charming 

Was  not  from  Venus  caught; 
Nor  was  it,  Pallas-like,  derived 

From  majesty  of  thought  : 
Her  healthful  cheek  was  tinged  with  brown, 

Her  hair  without  a  curl — 
But  then  her  eyes  were  love-lit  stars, 

Her  teeth  as  pure  as  pearl. 

And  when  in  merry  laughter 

Her  sweet,  clear  voice  was  heard, 
It  welled  from  out  her  happy  heart 

Like  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
And  all  who  heard  were  moved  to  smiles, 

As  at  some  mirthful  lay, 
And,  to  the  stranger's  look,  replied, 

"'Tis  that  dear  Alice  Ray." 

And  so  she  came,  like  sunbeams 

That  bring  the  April  green — 
As  type  of  nature's  royalty, 

They  called  her  "  Woodburn's  queen  !" 
A  sweet,  heart-lifting  cheerfulness, 

Like  springtime  of  the  year, 
Seemed  ever  on  her  steps  to  wait 

No  wonder  she  was  dear. 

Her  world  was  ever  joyous — 

She  thought  of  grief  and  pain 
As  giants  of  the  olden  time, 

That  ne'er  would  come  again  ; 
The  seasons  all  had  charms  for  her, 

She  welcomed  each  with  joy 

The  charm  that  in  her  spirit  lived 

No  changes  could  destroy. 
Her  love  made  all  things  lovely, 

For  in  the  heart  must  live 
The  ^feeling  that  imparts  the  charm 

We  gain  by  what  we  give. 


SARAH   J.   HALE. 


IRON. 

"  Truth  shall  spring  out  of  the  earth."— Psalm  Ixxxv.  11. 

A.S,  in  lonely  thought,  I  pondered 

On  the  marv'lous  things  of  earth, 
And,  in  fancy's  dreaming,  wondered 

At  their  beauty,  power,  and  worth, 
Came,  like  words  of  prayer,  the  feeling — 

Oh  !  that  God  would  make  me  know, 
Through  the  spirit's  clear  revealing, 

What,  of  all  his  works  below, 
Is  to  man  a  boon  the  greatest, 

Brightening  on  from  age  to  age, 
Serving  truest,  earliest,  latest, 

Through  the  world's  long  pilgrimage. 

Soon  vast  mountains  rose  before  me, 

Shaggy,  desolate,  and  lone, 
Their  scarred  heads  were  threat'ning  o'er  me, 

Their  dark  shadows  round  me  thrown ; 
Then  a  voice,  from  out  the  mountains, 

As  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  like  frightened  fawns  the  fountains, 

Leaping,  fled  before  the  sound ; 
And  the  Anak  oaks  bowed  lowly, 

Quivering,  aspen-like,  with  fear — 
While  the  deep  response  came  slowly, 

Or  it  must  have  crashed  mine  ear ! 

"Iron!  iron!  iron!" — crashing, 

Like  the  battle-axe  and  shield ! 
Or  the  sword  on  helmet  clashing, 

Through  a  bloody  battle-field  : 
"  Iron  !  iron  !  iron  !" — rolling, 

Like  the  far-off  cannon's  boom  ; 
Or  the  death-knell,  slowly  tolling, 

Through  a  dungeon's  charnel  gloom  ! 
"  Iron  !  iron  !  iron  !" — swinging, 

Like  the  summer  winds  at  play; 
Or  as  bells  of  Time  were  ringing 

In  the  blest  millennial  day ! 

Then  the  clouds  of  ancient  fable 

Cleared  away  before  mine  eyes; 
Truth  could  tread  a  footing  stable 

O'er  the  gulf  of  mysteries  ! 
Words,  the  prophet-bards  had  uttered, 

Signs,  the  oracle  foretold, 
Spells,  the  weird-like  sybil  muttered, 

Through  the  twilight  days  of  old, 
Rightly  read,  beneath  the  splendor. 

Shining  now  on  history's  page, 
All  their  faithful  witness  render — 

All  portend  a  better  age. 

Sisyphus,  for  ever  toiling, 

Was  the  type  of  toiling  men, 
While  the  stone  of  power,  recoiling, 

Crushed  them  back  to  earth  again ! 
Stern  Prometheus,  bound  and  bleeding, 

Imaged  man  in  mental  chain, 
While  the  vultures,  on  him  feeding, 

Were  the  passions'  vengeful  reign ; 
Still  a  ray  of  mercy  tarried 

On  the  cloud,  a  white-winged  dove, 
For  this  mystic  faith  had  married 

Vulcan  to  the  queen  of  love  f 


Rugged  strength  and  radiant  beauty — 

These  were  one  in  nature's  plan ; 
Humble  toil  and  heavenward  duty — 

These  will  form  the  perfect  man  ! 
Darkly  was  this  doctrine  taught  us 

By  the  gods  of  heathendom ; 
But  the  living  light  was  brought  us, 

When  the  gospel  morn  had  come ! 
How  the  glorious  change,  expected, 

Could  be  wrought,  was  then  made  free  • 
Of  the  earthly,  when  perfected, 

Rugged  iron  forms  the  key  ! 

"  Truth  from  out  the  earth  shall  flourish," 

This  the  Word  of  God  makes  known — 
Thence  are  harvests  men  to  nourish — 

There  let  iron's  power  be  shown. 
Of  the  swords,  from  slaughter  gory, 

Ploughshares  forge  to  break  the  soil ; 
Then  will  Mind  attain  its  glory, 

Then  will  Labor  reap  the  spoil — 
Error  cease  the  soul  to  'wilder, 

Crime  be  checked  by  simple  good, 
As  the  little  coral-builder 

Forces  back  the  furious  flood. 

While  our  faith  in  good  grows  stronger, 

Means  of  greater  good  increase ; 
Iron,  slave  of  war  no  longer, 

Leads  the  onward  march  of  peace ; 
Still  new  modes  of  service  finding, 

Ocean,  earth,  and  air,  it  moves, 
And  the  distant  nations  binding, 

Like  the  kindred  tie  it  proves ; 
WTith  its  Atlas-shoulder  sharing 

Loads  of  human  toil  and  care ; 
On  its  wing  of  lightning  bearing 

Thought's  swift  mission  through  the  air 

As  the  rivers,  farthest  flowing. 

In  the  highest  hills  have  birth ; 
As  the  banyan,  broadest  growing, 

Oftenest  bows  its  head  to  earth — 
So  the  noblest  minds  press  onward, 

Channels  far  of  good  to  trace ; 
So  the  largest  hearts  bend  downward, 

Circling  all  the  human  race ; 
Thus,  by  iron's  aid,  pursuing 

Through  the  earth  their  plans  of  love, 
Men  our  Father's  will  are  doing, 

Here,  as  angels  do  above  ! 


THE  WATCHER. 

THE  night  was  dark  and  fearful, 

The  blast  swept  wailing  by  ; — 
A  watcher,  pale  and  tearful, 

Looked  forth  with  anxious  eye : 
POW  wistfully  she  gazes — 

No  gleam  of  morn  is  there ! 
And  then  her  heart  upraises 

Its  agony  of  prayer  ! 

Within  that  dwelling  lonely, 

Where  want  and  darkness  reigu. 

Her  precious  child,  her  only, 
Lay  moaning  in  his  pain ; 


SARAH   J.   HALE. 


And  death  alone  can  free  him — 
She  feels  that  this  must  be: 

"  But  oh  !  for  morn  to  see  him 
Smile  once  again  on  me !" 

A  hundred  lights  are  glancing 

In  yonder  mansion  fair, 
And  merry  feet  are  dancing — 

They  heed  not  morning  there : 
Oh  !  young  and  lovely  creatures, 

One  lamp,  from  out  your  store, 
Would  give  that  poor  boy's  features 

To  her  fond  gaze  once  more ! 

The  morning  sun  is  shining — 

She  heedeth  not  its  ray ; 
Beside  her  dead,  reclining, 

That  pale,  dead  mother  lay  ! 
A  smile  her  lip  was  wreathing, 

A  smile  of  hope  and  love, 
As  though  she  still  were  breathing — • 

"  There 's  light  for  us  above  !" 


I  SING  TO  HIM 


to  him  !     I  dream  he  hears 

The  song  he  used  to  love, 
And  oft  that  blessed  fancy  cheers 

And  bears  my  thoughts  above. 
Ye  say  'tis  idle  thus  to  dream  — 

But  why  believe  it  so  ? 
It  is  the  spirit's  meteor  gleam 

To  soothe  the  pang  of  wo. 

Love  gives  to  nature's  voice  a  tone 

That  true  hearts  understand  — 
The  sky,  the  earth,  the  forest  lone, 

Are  peopled  by  his  wand  ; 
Sweet  fancies  all  our  pulses  thrill 

While  {razing  on  a  flower, 
And  from  the  gently  whisp'ring  rill 

Is  heard  the  words  of  power. 

I  breathe  the  dear  and  cherished  name, 

And  long-lost  scenes  arise; 
Life's  glowing  landscape  spreads  the  same  ; 

The  same  hope's  kindling  skies  ; 
The  violet-bank,  the  muss-fringed  seat 

Beneath  the  drooping  tree, 
The  clock  that  chimed  the  hour  to  meet, 

My  buried  love,  with  thee  — 

0,  these  are  all  before  me,  when 

In  fancy's  realms  I  rove  ; 
Why  urge  me  to  the  world  again  \ 

^  Why  say  the  ties  of  love, 
That  death's  cold,  cruel  grasp  has  riven, 

Unite  no  more  below  1 
I'll  sing  to  him  —  for  though  in  heaven, 

He  surely  heed*  my  wo  ! 


THE  LIGHT  OF  HOME. 

Mr  son,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 

And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam, 
And  thou  must  go ; — but  never,  when  there, 

Forget  the  light  of  home ! 

Though  pleasure  may  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray  ; 
Like  the  meteor's  flash,  'twill  deepen  the  night 

When  treading  thy  lonely  way: 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

And  pure  as  vestal  fire ; 
'Twill  burn,  'twill  burn  for  ever  the  same, 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  ambition  is  tempest-tossed, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam  : 

When  sails  are  shivered  and  compass  lost, 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home ! 

And  there,  like  a  star  through  the  midnight  cloud, 

Thou  shalt  see  the  beacon  bright, 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud, 

Can  be  quenched  its  holy  light. 
The  sun  of  fame  may  gild  the  name, 

But  the  heart  ne'er  felt  its  ray ; 
And  fashion's  smiles  that  rich  ones  claim, 

Are  beams  of  a  wintry  day  : 

How  cold  and  dim  those  beams  would  be, 
Should  life's  poor  wanderer  come  ! — 

My  son,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee, 
Then  turn  to  the  light  of  home. 


THE  TWO  MAIDENS. 

OXE  came  with  light  and  laughing  air, 
And  cheek  like  opening  blossom — 

Bright  gems  were  twined  amid  her  hair, 
And  glittered  on  her  bosom, 

And  pearls  and  costly  diamonds  deck 

Her  round,  white  arms  arid  lovely  neck. 

Like  summer's  sky,  with  stars  bcdight, 
The  jewelled  robe  around  her, 

And  dazzling  as  the  noontide  light 
The  radiant  zone  that  bound  her — 

And  pride  and  joy  were  in  her  eye, 

And  mortals  bowed  as  she  passed  by. 

Another  came  :  o'er  her  sweet  face 
A  pensive  shade  was  stealing ; 

Yet  there  no  grief  of  earth  we  trace — 
But  the  heaven-hallowed  feeling 

Which  mourns  the  heart  should  ever  stray 

From  the  pure  fount  of  truth  away. 

Around  her  brow,  as  snowdrop  fair, 

The  glossy  tresses  cluster, 
Nor  pearl  nor  ornament  was  there, 

Save  the  meek  spirit's  lustre ; 
And  faith  and  hope  beamed  in  her  eye, 
Am   angels  bowed  as  she  passed  bv. 


ANNA    MARIA    WELLS. 


(Born  1797). 


MRS.  WELLS,  formerly  Miss  FOSTER,  was 
Dorn  ia  Gloucester,  Massachusetts.  Her  fa 
ther  died  while  she  was  an  infant,  and  her 
mother,  in  a  few  years,  married  Mr.  Locke, 
of  Boston,  the  father  of  Mrs.  Osgood.  She 
began  to  write  verses  when  very  young,  but 
published  little  until  her  marriage,  in  1829, 
with  Mr.  Thomas  Wells,  of  the  United  States 
revenue  service,  who  was  also  an  author  of 
considerable  merit,  as  is  evident  from  some 
pieces  by  him  quoted  in  Mr.  KettelPs  Speci 
mens  of  American  Poetry. 

In  1830  Mrs.  Wells  published  a  small  vol 


ume  entitled  Poems  and  Juvenile  Sketches, 
and  she  has  since  been  an  occasional  contri 
butor  to  several  periodicals  that  have  been 
edited  by  her  personal  friends.  The  poems 
of  Mrs.  Wells  are  characterized  by  womanly 
feeling  and  a  tasteful  simplicity  of  diction. 
Her  range  is  limited,  and  she  has  the  good 
sense  to  enter  only  the  fields  to  which  she  is 
invited  by  her  affections  and  the  natural  fan 
cies  which  are  their  children.  While  there 
fore  her  successes  have  not  been  brilliant  they 
have  been  honorable,  and  she  has  to  regret 
no  failures. 


ASCUTNEY. 

IN  a  low,  white-washed  cottage,  overrun 
With  mantling  vines,  and  sheltered  from  the  sun 
By  rows  of  maple  trees,  that  gently  moved 
Their  graceful  limbs  to  the  mild  breeze  they  loved, 
Oft  have  I  lingered — idle  it  might  seem, 
But  that  the  heart  was  busy ;  and  I  deem 
Those  minutes  not  misspent,  when  silently 
The  soul  communes  with  nature,  and  is  free. 

O'erlooking  this  low  cottage,  stately  stood 
The  huge  Ascutney  :  there,  in  thoughtful  mood, 
I  loved  to  hold  with  her  gigantic  form 
Deep  converse — not  articulate,  but  warm 
With  feeling's  noiseless  eloquence,  and  fit 
The  soul  of  nature  with  man's  soul  to  knit. 

In  various  aspect,  frowning  on  the  day, 
Or  touched  with  morning  twilight's  silvery  gray, 
Or  darkly  mantled  in  the  dusky  night, 
Or  by  the  moonbeams  bathed  in  showers  of  light — 
In  each,  in  all,  a  glory  still  was  there, 
A  spirit  of  sublimity  ;  but  ne'er 
Had  such  a  might  of  loveliness  and  power 
The  mountain  wrapt,  as  when,  at  midnight  hour, 
I  saw  the  tempest  gather  rounJ  her  head  : 
It  was  an  hour  of  joy,  yet  tinged  with  dread. 
As  the  deep  thunder  rolled  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
From  all  her  hidden  caves  she  cried  aloud  : 
Wood,  cliff,  and  valley,  with  the  echo  rung; 
From  rock  and  crag  darting,  with  forked  tongue 
The  lightning  glanced,  a  moment  laying  bare 
Her  naked  brow,  then  silence — darkness  there  ! 
And  straight  again  the  tumult,  as  if  rocks 
Had  split,  and  headlong  rolled.    But  nature  mocks 
All  language:  these  are  scenes  I  ne'er  again 
May  look  upon — but  precious  thoughts  remain 
On  memory's  page ;  and  ever  in  my  heart, 
A  raid  all  other  claims,  that  mountain  hath  a  part. 


THE  TAMED  EAGLE. 

HE  sat  upon  his  humble  perch,  nor  flew 

At  my  approach ; 

But  as  I  nearer  drew, 
Looked  on  me,  as  I  fancied,  with  reproach, 

And  sadness  too : 
And  something  still  his  native  pride  proclaimed, 

Despite  his  wo ; 

Which,  when  I  marked — ashamed 
To  see  a  noble  creature  brought  so  low — 

My  heart  exclaimed : 
«  Where  is  the  fire  that  lit  thy  fearless  eye, 

Child  of  the  storm, 

When  from  thy  home  on  high, 
Yon  craggy-breasted  rock,  I  saw  thy  form 

Cleaving  the  sky  1 
"  It  grieveth  me  to  see  thy  spirit  tamed — 

Gone  out  the  light 

That  in  thine  eyeball  flamed, 
When  to  the  midday  sun  thy  steady  flight 

Was  proudly  aimed  ! 
"  Like  a  young  dove  forsaken,  is  the  look 

Of  thy  sad  eye, 

Who,  in  some  lonely  nook, 
Mourns  on  the  willow  bough  her  destiny, 

Beside  the  brook. 
"  Oh,  let  not  me  insult  thy  fallen  dignity, 

Thou  monarch  bird, 

Gazing  with  vulgar  eye 
Upon  thy  ruin  ;  for  my  heart  is  stirred 

To  hear  thy  cry. 
"  Yet,  something  sterner  in  thy  downward  gaze 

Doth  seem  to  lower, 

And  deep  disdain  betrays, 
As  if  thou  cursed  man's  poorly-acted  power, 

And  scorned  his  praise." 
63 


ANNA    MARIA   WELLS. 


THE  OLD  ELM  THEE. 

EACH  morning,  when  my  waking  eyes  first  see, 

Through  the  wreathed  lattice,  gol  len  day  appear, 

There  sits  a  robin  on  the  old  elm  tree, 

And  with  such  stirring  music  liils  my  ear, 

I  iniiiht  forget  that  life  had  pain  or  fear, 

And  fee!  again  as  I  was  wont  to  do,  [new. 

When  hope  was  young,  and  joy  and  life  itself  were 

No  miser,  o'er  his  heaps  of  hoarded  gold, 

Nor  monarch,  in  the  plenitude  of  power, 

Nor  lover,  f'rrr  the  chaste  maid  to  enfold 

Who  ne'er  hath  owned  her  love  till  that  blest  hour, 

Nor  poet,  couched  in  rocky  nook  or  bower, 

Knoweth  more  heartfelt  happiness  than  he, 

That  never  tiring  warbler  of  the  old  elm  tree. 

From  even  the  poorest  of  Heaven's  creatures,  such 

As  know  no  rule  but  impulse,  we  may  draw 

Lemons  of  sweet  humility,  and  much 

Of  apt  instruction  in  the  homely  law 

Of  nature  :  and  the  time  hath  been,  I  saw 

Naught,  beautiful  or  mean,  but  had  for  me   [tree. 

Some  charm,  even  like  the  warbler  of  the  old  elm 

And  listening  to  his  joy  inspiring  lay, 

Some  sweet  reflections  are  engendered  thence  : 

As  half  in  tears,  unto  myself  I  say, 

God,  who  hath  given  this  creature  sources  whence 

He  such  delight  may  gather  and  dispense, 

Hath  in  my  heart  joy's  living  fountain  placed, 

More  free  to  flow,  the  oftener  of  its  waves  I  taste. 


ANNA. 

WITH  the  first  ray  of  morning  light 
^  Her  face  is  close  to  mine — her  face  all  smiles : 
She  hovers  round  my  pillow  like  a  sprite 
Mingling  with  tenderness  her  playful  wiles. 
All  the  long  day 
She 's  at  some  busy  play ; 
Or  'twixt  her  tiny  fingers 
The  scissors  or  the  needle  speeds ; 
Or  some  sweet  story-book  she  reads, 

And  o'er  it  serious  lingers. 
She  stops  like  some  glad  creature  of  the  air, 

As  if  she  read  her  fate,  and  knew  it  fair 

In  truth,  for  tlite  at  all  she  hath  no  care. 
Yet  hath  she  tears  as  well  as  gladness: 

A  butterfly  in  pain 
Will  make  her  weep  for  sadness, 
But  straight  she'll  smile  again. 
And  lately  she  hath  pressed  the  couch  of  pain 

Sickness  hath  dimmed  her  eye, 
And  on  her  tender  spirit  Iain, 
And  brought  her  near  to  die. 
But  like  the  flower 
That  droops  at  evening  hour, 
And  opens  gayly  in  the  morning, 
Again  her  quick  eye  glows, 
And  health's  fresh  rose 
Her  soft  cheek  is  adorning. 
Hushed  was  her  childish  lay: 
Like  some  sweet  bird  did  sickness  hold  her  in  a  net ; 


And  when  she  broke  away, 
And  shook  her  wings  in  the  bright  day, 
Her  recent  capture  she  did  quite  forget. 
What  joy  again  to  hear  her  blessed  voice  ! 
My  heart,  lie  still,  but  in  thy  quietness  rejoice ! 
Again,  along  the  floor  and  on  the  stair, 

Coming  and  going,  I  hear  her  rapid  feet ; 
Again  her  little,  simple,  earnest  prayer, 

Hear  her,  at  bedtime,  in  low  voice  repeat. 
Again,  at  table,  and  the  fire  beside, 

Her  dear  head  rises,  smiling  with  the  rest ; 
Again  her  heart  and  rnind  are  open  wide 

To  yield  and  to  receive — bless  and  be  blest — 
Pliant  and  teachable,  and  oft  revealing 
Thoughts  that  must  ripen  into  higher  feeling. 
Oh,  sweet  maturity  ! — the  gentle  mood 
Raised  to  the  intellectual  and  the  good ; 
The  bright,  affectionate,  and  happy  child — 
The  woman,  pure,  intelligent,  and  mild  ! 
It  must  be  so :  they  can  not  waste  on  air 
A  mother's  labor  and  a  mother's  prayer. 

THE  FUTURE. 

THE  flowers,  the  many  flowers, 
That  all  along  the  smiling  valley  grew, 

While  the  sun  lay  for  hours, 
Kissing  from  off  their  drooping  lids  the  dew ; 

They,  to  the  summer  air 
No  longer  prodigal,  their  sweet  breath  yield : 

Vainly,  to  bind  her  hair, 
The  village  maiden  seeks  them  in  the  field. 

The  breeze,  the  gentle  breeze, 
That  wandered  like  a  frolic  child  at  play, 

Loitering  mid  blossomed  trees, 
Trailing  their  stolen  sweets  along  its  way, 

No  more  adventuresome, 
Its  whispered  love  is  to  the  violet  given ; 

The  boisterous  North  has  come, 
And  scared  the  sportive  trifler  back  to  heaven. 

The  brook,  the  limpid  brook, 
That  prattled  of  its  coolness,  as  it  went 

Forth  from  its  rocky  nook, 
Leaping  with  joy  to  be  no  longer  pent 

Its  pleasant  song  is  hushed  : 
The  sun  no  more  looks  down  upon  its  play 

Freely,  where  once  it  gushed, 
The  mountain  torrent  drives  its  noisy  way. 

The  hours,  the  youthful  hours, 
When  in  the  cool  shade  we  were  wont  to  lie, 

Idling  with  fresh  culled  flowers, 
In  dreams  that  ne'er  could  know  reality  : 

Fond  hours,  but  half  enjoyed, 
Like  the  sweet  summer  breeze  they  passed  away, 

And  dear  hopes  were  destroyed, 
Like  buds  that  die  before  the  noon  of  day. 

Young  life,  young  turbulent  life, 
If,  like  the  stream,  it  take  a  wayward  course, 

Tis  lost  mid  folly's  strife 

O'erwhelmed  at  length  by  passion's  curbless  force : 

Nor  deem  youth's  buoyant  hours 
For  idle  hopes  or  useless  musings  given— 

Who  dreams  away  his  powers, 
The  reckless  slumberer  shall  not  wake  to  heaven. 


ANNA    MARIA   WELLS. 


THE  WHITE  HARE. 

IT  was  the  sabbath  eve — we  went, 
My  Geraldine  and  I,  intent 

The  twi'ight  hour  to  pass, 
Where  we  might  hear  the  water  flow, 
And  scent  the  freighted  winds  that  blow 

Athwart  the  vernal  grass. 

In  darker  grandeur — as  the  day 
Stole  scarce  perceptibly  away — 

The  purple  mountain  stood, 
Wearing  the  young  moon  as  a  crest: 
The  sun,  half  sunk  in  the  far  west, 

Seemed  mingling  with  the  flood. 

The  cooling  dews  their  balm  distilled  ; 
A  holy  joy  our  bosoms  thrilled  ; 

Our  thoughts  were  free  as  air  ; 
And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  did  we 
Together  pour  instinctively 

Our  songs  of  gladness  there. 

The  green  wood  waved  its  shade  hard  by, 
WThile  thus  we  wove  our  harmony : 

Lured  by  the  mystic  strain, 
A  snow-white  hare,  that  long  had  been 
Peering  from  forth  her  covert  green, 

Came  bounding  o'er  the  plain. 

Her  beauty,  'twas  a  joy  to  note — 
The  pureness  of  her  downy  coat, 

Her  wild  yet  gentle  eye — 
The  pleasure  that,  despite  her  fear, 
Had  led  the  timid  thing  so  near 

To  list  our  minstrelsy. 

All  motionless,  with  head  inclined, 
^She  stood,  as  if  her  heart  divined 

The  impulses  of  ours — 
Till  the  last  note  had  died — and  then 
Turned  half  reluctantly  again, 

Back  to  her  greenwood  bowers. 

Once  more  the  magic  sounds  we  tried — 
Again  the  hare  was  seen  to  glide 

From  out  her  sylvan  shade ; 
Again,  as  joy  had  given  her  wings, 
Fleet  as  a  bird  she  forward  springs 

Along  the  dewy  glade. 

Go,  happy  thing  !  disport  at  will — 
Take  thy  delight  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

Or  rest  in  leafy  bower : 
The  harrier  may  beset  thy  way, 
The  cruel  snare  thy  feet  betray — 

Enjoy  thy  little  hour  ! 

We  know  not,  and  we  ne'er  may  know 
The  hidden  springs  of  joy  and  wo, 
That  deep  within^ do  lie  : 


The  silent  workings  of  thy  heart 
Do  almost  seem  to  have  a  part 
With  our  humanity  ! 


THE  SEA-BIRD. 

SEA-BTTU>  !  haunter  of  the  wave, 

Delighting  o'er  its  crest  to  hover ; 
Half  engulfed  where  yawns  the  cave 

The  billow  forms  in  rolling  over; 
Sea-bird  !  seeker  of  the  storm  ! 

In  its  shriek  thou  dost  rejoice ; 
Sending  from  thy  bosom  warm 

Answer  shriller  than  its  voice. 

Bird,  of  nervous  winged  flight, 

Flashing  silvery  to  the  sun, 
Sporting  with  the  sea-foam  white — 

When  will  thy  wild  course  be  done  * 
Whither  tends  it  1     Has  the  shore 

No  alluring  haunt  for  thee  ] 
Nook,  with  tangled  vines  grown  o'er, 

Scented  shrub,  or  leafy  tree  1 

Is  the  purple  seaweed  rarer 

Than  the  violet  of  the  spring  1 
Is  the  snowy  foam-wreath  fairer 

Than  the  apple's  blossoming  ] 
Shady  grove  and  sunny  slope — 

Seek  but  these,  and  thou  shalt  meet 
Birds  not  born  with  storm  to  cope, 

Hermits  of  retirement  sweet — 

Where  no  winds  too  rudely  swell, 

But  in  whispers,  as  they  pass, 
Of  the  fragrant  flow'ret  tell, 

Hidden  in  the  tender  grass. 
There  the  mockbird  sings  of  love ; 

There  the  robin  builds  his  nest ; 
There  the  gentle-hearted  dove, 

Brooding,  takes  her  blissful  rest. 

Sea-bird,  stay  thy  rapid  flight : 

Gone !  where  dark  waves  foam  and  dash. 
Like  a  lone  star  on  the  night — 

Far  I  see  his  white  wing  flash. 
He  obeyeth  God's  behest, 

All  their  destiny  fulfil : 
Tempests  some  are  born  to  breast — 

Some  to  worship  and  be  still. 

If  to  struggle  with  the  storm 

On  life's  ever-changing  sea, 
Where  cold  mists  enwrap  the  form, 

My  harsh  destiny  must  be — 
Sea-bird  !  thus  may  I  abide 

Cheerful  the  allotment  given, 
And,  rising  o'er  the  ruffled  tide, 

Escape  at  last,  like  thee,  to  heaven  t 


MARIA    JAMES. 


(Born  1795). 


IN  1S33,  Bishop  Potter,  then  one  of  the 
professors  in  Union  College,  was  shown  by 
his  wife,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  visit 
to  Rhinebeck  on  the  Hudson,  the  Ode  for  the 
Fourth  of  July  which  is  quoted  on  the  next 
page,  and  informed  that  it  was  the  production 
of  a  young  woman  at  service  in  the  family 
of  a  friend  there,  whom  he  had  often  noticed 
on  account  of  her  retiring  and  modest  man 
ners,  and  who  had  been  in  that  capacity  more 
than  twenty  years.  When  further  advised 
that  these  lines  had  been  thrown  off  with 
great  rapidity  and  apparent  ease,  and  that 
the  writer  had  been  accustomed  almost  from 
childhood  to  find  pleasure  in  similar  efforts, 
the  information  awakened  a  lively  interest, 
and  led  him  to  examine  other  pieces  from 
the  same  hand,  and  finally  to  introduce  them 
to  the  public  notice,  in  a  preface  over  his 
signature  to  the  volume  entitled  Wales  and 
other  Poems,  by  MARIA  JAMES,  published  in 
1839. 

MARIA  JAMES  is  the  daughter  of  poor  but 
pious  parents  who  emigrated  to  this  country 
from  Wales,  near  the  beginning  of  the  pres 
ent  century,  and  settled  near  the  slate  quar 
ries  in  the  northern  part  of  New  York.  Her 
remaining  history  is  told  in  an  interesting 
manner  in  the  following  extracts  from  a  let 
ter  wnich  she  addressed  to  Mrs.  Potter: 

"  Toward  the  completion  of  my  seventh  year,  I 
found  myself  on  ship-hoard,  surrounded  hy  men,  wo- 
nii-ii  ;md  children,  whose  friers  \veiv  unknown  to  me. 
Jt  wsis  here,  perhaps,  Hint  I  first  began  to  learn  in  a 
particular  manner  from  observation — soon  discovering 
that,  thus*-  children  who  were  handsome  or  smartly 
dressed  received  much  more  attention  than  myself) 
wK>  had  neither  of  these  recommendations:  'how 
ever,  instead  of  giving  way  to  feehn-s  of  envy  and 
jealousy,  my  imagination  was  revelling  among1  the 
fruits  and  (lowers  which  I  expected  to  find  in  the 
land  to  which  we  wen;  hound.  I  also  had  an  oppor 
tunity  to  learn  a  littl"  Kn-lisli  during  the  voyage,  as 
'Take  care,'  and  '(Jet  out  of  the  way,'  seemed  reit 
erated  from  land's  end  to  land's  end.' 

"  After  our  family  were  settled  in  some  measure, 
1  was  sent  to  school,  my  father  bavin-  commenced 
teaching  me  at  home  some  time  previous.  I  think 
there  was  no  particular  aptness  to  learn  about  me. 
Aft.T  I  could  read,  I  rwk  much  delL-ht  in  John 
Rogers'!  last  advice  to  his  children,  with  all  the 
excellent  et  cameras  to  he  found  in  the  old  Kn-rlish 
Primer.  I  was  also  fond  of  reading  the  common 
liymnhook.  The  New  Testament  was  my  only 
•»cliool-hook.  Tims  accomplished,  I  happened  one 


day  to  hear  a  young  woman  read  Add  icon's  inimita 
ble  paraphrases  of  the  twenty-third  psalm  :  1 1'stened 
as  to  the  voice  of  an  angel.  Those  who  know  the 
power  of  good  reading  or  good  speaking,  need  not 
be  told  that,  where  there  is  an  ear  for  sound,  the 
manner  in  which  either  is  done  will  make  every  pos 
sible  difference.  This,  probably,  was  the  first  time 
that  I  ever  heard  a  good  reader. 

"  My  parents  again  removing,  I  found  myself  in  a 
school  where  the  elder  children  used  the  American 
P receptor.  I  listened  in  transport  as  they  read 
DwL'ht's  Columbia,  which  must  have  been  merely 
fr<  m  the  smoothness  of  its  sound,  as  1  could  have  had 
but  very  little  knowledge  of  its  meaning.  1  was  now 
ten  years  of  age,  and  as  an  opportunity  offered  which 
my  parents  saw  fit  to  embrace,  1  entered  the  family 
in  which  I  now  reside,  where,  besides  learninir  many 
useful  household  occupations,  that  care  and  attention 
was  paid  to  my  words  and  actions  as  is  seldom  to  be 
met  with  in  such  situations.  I  had  before  me  some 
of  the  best  models  for  good  reading  and  cood  speak 
ing;  and  any  child,  with  a  natural  ear  for  the  beauti 
ful  in  language,  will  notice  these  thiii-:s,  and  though 
their  conversation  may  not  differ  materially  from  that 
of  others  in  their  line  of  life,  they  will  almost  invari 
able  think  in  the  style  of  their  admiration. 

"  The  Bible  here,  as  in  my  father's  house,  was  the 
book  of  books,  the  heads  of  the  family  constantly  im 
pressing  on  all,  that  '  the  fear  of  the.  Lord  is  the  be 
ginning  of  wisdom,'  and  that  to  'depart  from  iniquity 
is  understanding.'  There  is  scarcely  anything  that 
can  affect  the  mind  of  young  persons  like  those  les 
sons  of  wisdom  which  fall  from  lips  they  love  and  re 
spect. 

"  Besides  frequent  opportunities  of  hearing  instruc 
tive  books  read,  1113'  leisure  hours  were  often  devoted 
to  one  or  the  other  of  these  works  :  first,  the  Female 
Mentor,  comprising  within  itself  a  little  epitome  of 
elegant  literature;  two  odd  volumes  of  the  Adven 
turer;  Miss  Hannah  More's  Cheap  Repository;  and 
Pilgrim's  Progress.  During  a  period  of  nearly  seven 
years  which  I  spent  in  this  family,  the  newspapers 
were  more  or  less  filled  with  the  wars  and  fightings 
of  our  European  neighbors.  My  imagination  took 
fire,  and  I  lent  an  ear  to  the  whispers  of  the  muse. 
"Twas  then  that  first  she  pruned  the  wing; 

'Twas  then  she  first  essayed  to  sing.' 
But  the  wing  was  powerless,  and  the  sonir  without 
melody.  As  I  advanced  toward  womanhood,  I  shrunk 
from  the  nickname  of  poet,  which  had  been  awarded 
me  :  the  very  idea  seemed  the  height  of  presump 
tion.  In  my  seventeenth  year  I  left  this  situation  to 
learn  dressmaking.  I  sewed  neatly,  but  too  slow  to 
insure  success.  My  failure  in  this  was  always  a  sub 
ject  of  regret.  After  this,  I  lived  some  time  in  dif 
ferent  situations,  my  employment  beiiiLT  principally 
in  the  nursery.  In  each  of  these  different  families  I 
had  access  to  those  who  spoke  the  purest  English, 
also  frequent  opportunities  of  hearing  correct  and 
elegant  readers — at  least  I  believed  them  such  by 
the  effect  produced  on  my  feelings;  and  althougu 
nineteen  years  have  nearly  passed  away  since  my 
return  to  the  home  of  my  early  life,  1  have  not  ceased 
to  remember  with  gratitude  the  kind  treatment  re 
ceived  from  different  persons  at  this  period,  while 
my  attachment  to  their  children  has  not  been  oblit 
erated  by  time  nor  by  absence,  and  is  likely  to  con 
tinue  till  death 

"  With  respect  to  the  few  poems  which  you  have 
66 


MARIA    JAMES. 


67 


been  so  kind  as  to  overlook,  I  can  hardly  say  myself 
how  they  came  to  be  written.  I  recollect,  many 
years  ago,  of  trying  something-  in  this  way  for  the 
amusement  of  a  little  boy  who  was  very  dear  to  me; 
except  this,  with  a  very  few  other  pieces,  long  for 
gotten,  no  attempt  of  the  kind  was  made  until  The 
Mother's  Lament,  and  Elijah,  with  a  number  of  epi 
taphs,  which  were  written  previous  to  those  which 
have  been  produced  within  the  last  six  years.  The 
subject  of  the  Hummingbird,  (the  oldest  of  these,) 
was  taken  captive  by  my  own  hand.  The  Adven 
ture  is  described  just  as  it  happened.  Wales  is  a 

kind  of  retrospect  of  the   days  of  childhood Of 

Ambition,  permit  me,  dear  madam,  to  call  your  at 
tention  to  the  summer  of  1832,  when  yourself)  with 
the  other  ladies  of  this  family,  were  reading  Bourn- 
enne's  Life  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  :  1  hud  opportu 
nities  of  hearing  a  little  sometimes,  which  brought 
forcibly  to  my  mind  certain  conversations  which  I 
heard  in  the*  early  part  of  my  life  respecting  this 
wonderful  man.  The  poem  was  produced  the  fol 
lowing  summer.  In  the  year  1819,  The  American 
Flag  appeared  in  the  New  York  American,  signed 
'  Croaker  &  Co.' :  this  kindled  up  the  poetic  fires  in 
my  breast,  which,  however,  did  not  find  utterance 
until  fourteen  years  afterward,  in  the  Ode  on  the 
Fourth  of  July,  1833.  This  appearing  in  print,  some 


who  did  not  know  me  very  well  inquired  of  others, 
'  Do  you  suppose  she  ever  wrote  it  ?'  Being  an 
swered  in  the  affirmative,  it  was  imagined  '  she  must 
have  had  help.'  These  remarks  gave  rise  to  the  ques 
tion,  What  is  poetry  ?  The  Album  was  begun  and 
carried  through  without  previous  arrangement  or 
design,  laid  aside  when  the  mind  was  weary,  and 
taken  up  again  just  as  the  subject  happened  to  pre 
sent  itself.  Friendship  was  produced  in  the  same 
way.  Many  of  the  pieces  are  written  from  impres 
sions  received  in  youth,  particularly  the  Whip-poor- 
will,  the  Meadow  Lark,  the  Firefly,  &c." 

In  the  Introduction  to  her  poems  Bishop 
Potter  vindicates  in  an  admirable  manner, 
against  the  sneers  of  Johnson,  the  propriety 
of  recognising  the  abilities  of  the  humblest 
classes.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  poems  of 
Maria  James  will  bear  a  very  favorable  com 
parison  with  the  compositions  uf  any  of  the 
"uneducated  poets"  whose  names  are  cele 
brated  in  Mr.  Southey's  fine  essay  upon  this 
subject. 


ODE, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1833. 

[  SEE  that  banner  proudly  wave — 

Yes,  proudly  waving  yet ; 
Not  a  stripe  is  torn  from  the  broad  array, 

Not  a  single  star  is  set; 
And  the  eagle,  with  unruffled  plume, 
Is  soaring  aloft  in  the  welkin  dome. 

Not  a  leaf  is  plucked  from  the  branch  he  bears; 

From  his  grasp  not  an  arrow  has  flown ; 
The  mist  that  obstructed  his  vision  is  past, 

And  the  murmur  of  discord  is  gone  : 
For  he  sees,with  a  glance  over  mountain  and  plain, 
The  Union  unbroken,  from  Georgia  to  Maine. 

Far  southward,  in  that  sunny  clime, 

Where  bright  magnolias  bloom, 
And  the  orange  with  the  lime  tree  vies 

In  shedding  rich  perfume, 
A  sound  was  heard  like  the  ocean's  roar, 
As  its  surges  break  on  the  rocky  shore. 

Was  it  the  voice  of  the  tempest  loud, 

As  it  felled  some  lofty  tree, 
Or  a  sudden  flash  from  a  passing  storm 

Of  heaven's  artillery  1 
Butjt  died  away,  and  the  sound  of  doves 
Is  heard  again  in  the  scented  groves. 

The  links  are  all  united  still 

That  form  the  golden  chain, 
And  peace  and  plenty  smile  around, 

Throughout  the  wide  domain  : 
How  feeble  is  language,  how  cold  is  the  lay, 
Compared  with  the  joy  of  this  festival  day — 

To  see  that  banner  waving  yet — 

Ay,  waving  proud  and  high — 
No  rent  in  all  its  ample  folds, 

No  stain  of  crimson  dye  : 
And  the  eagle  spreads  his  pinions  fair, 
And  mounts  aloft  in  the  fields  of  air. 


THE  PILGRIMS. 

TO  A  LADY. 

WE  met  as  pilgrims  meet, 

Who  are  bound  to  a  distant  shrine, 
Who  spend  the  hours  in  converse  sweet 

From  noon  to  the  day's  decline — 
Soul  mingling  with  soul,  as  they  tell  of  their  fears 
And  their  hopes,  as  they  pass  thro'  the  valley  of  tears. 

And  still  they  commune  with  delight, 

Of  pleasures  or  toils  by  the  way, 
The  winds  of  the  desert  that  chill  them  by  night, 

Or  heat  that  oppresses  by  day  : 
For  one  to  the  faithful  is  ever  at  hand, 
As  the  shade  of  a  rock  in  a  weary  land. 
We  met  as  soldiers  meet, 

Ere  yet  the  fight  is  won — 
Ere  joyful  at  their  captain's  feet 

Is  laid  their  armor  down  : 
Each  strengthens  his  fellow  to  do  and  to  bear, 
In  hope  of  the  crown  which  the  victors  wear. 

Though  daily  the  strife  they  renew, 

And  their  foe  his  thousands  o'ercome, 
Yet  the  promise  unfailing  is  ever  in  view 

Of  safety,  protection,  and  home  :  [conferred, 
Where  they  knew  that  their  sovereign  such  favor 
"  As  eye  hath  not  seen,  as  the  ear  hath  not  heard." 

We  met  as  seamen  meet, 

On  ocean's  watery  plain, 
Where  billows  rise  and  tempests  beat, 

Ere  the  destined  port  they  gain  : 
But  tempests  they  baffle,  and  billows  they  brave, 
Assured  that  their  pilot  is  mighty  to  save. 
They  dwell  on  the  scenes  which  have  past, 

Of  perils  they  still  may  endure — 
The  haven  of  rest,  where  they  anchor  at  Ia?\ 

Where  bliss  is  complete  and  secure — 
Till  its  towers  and  spires  arise  from  afar, 
(To  the  eye  of  faith,^  as  some  radiant  star, 


MARIA    JAMES. 


We  met  as  brethren  meet, 

Who  are  cast  on  a  foreign  strand, 
Whose  hearts  arc  cheered  as  they  hasten  to  greet 

And  commune  of  their  native  land — 
Of  their  Father's  house  in  that  world  above, 
Of  his  tender  care  and  his  boundless  love. 
The  city  so  fair  to  behold, 

The  redeemed  in  their  vestments  of  white — 
In  those  mansions  of  rest,  where,  mid  pleasures  un- 

They  finally  hope  to  unite :  [told, 

Where  ceaseless  ascriptions  of  praise  shall  ascend 
To  God  and  the  Lamb  in  a  world  without  end. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE.* 

IN  Gallia's  sunny  fields, 

Where  blooms  the  eglantine, 

And  where  luxuriant  clusters  bend 
The  fruitful  vine — 

The  youth  to  manhood  rose, 

('Tis  fancy  tells  the  tale  :) 
His  step  was  swift  as  mountain  deer 

That  skims  the  vale. 

And  his  eagle  glance, 

Which  told  perception  keen, 
"  Of  will  to  do  and  soul  to  dare," 

Deep  fixed  within. 

Perchance  a  mother's  love, 

A  father's  tender  care, 
With  every  kindly  household  bond, 

Were  his  to  share. 

Perchance  the  darling  one, 

The  best  beloved  was  he, 
Of  all  that  gathered  round  the  hearth 

From  infancy. 

How  fair  life's  morn  to  him  ! 

The  world  was  blithe  and  gay — 
Hope,  beckoning  with  an  angel's  smile, 

Led  on  the  way. 

He  left  his  native  plain, 

He  bade  his  home  farewell — 

And  she,  the  idol  of  his  heart, 
The  fair  Adele. 

Though  sad  the  parting  hour, 

What  ardor  fixed  his  breast, 
To  view  the  streams,  to  iread  the  soil, 

Far  in  the  West ! 

From  where  the  Huron's  wave 

First  greets  the  ruddy  light, 
To  where  Superior,  in  its  glow, 

Lies  calm  and  bright — 

Where  rose  the  forest  deep, 

Where  stretched  the  giant  shore, 
From  Del  Fuego's  utmost  bound 
To  Labrador. 

*  The  (jrave  here  spoken  of  was  pointed  out  to  the  wri 
ter  us  hr  tunl  resting  place  ,,f  a  French  officer-a  single 
mound,  without  a  stone  to  murk  the  spot,  in  Rutland  coun 
ty  Vermont. 


How  many  a  gallant  ship 

Since  then  has  crossed  the  sea, 

Deep  freighted  from  the  western  world — 
But  where  is  he  ] 

Oh,  ne'er  beside  that  hearth 
The  unbroken  ring  shall  meet, 

To  tell  th'  adventurous  tale,  or  join 
In  converse  sweet ! 

For  in  that  stranger-land 

His  lonely  grave  is  seen, 
Where  northern  mountains  lift  their  heads 

In  fadeless  green. 


TO  A  SINGING  BIRD. 

HUSH,  hush  that  lay  of  gladness, 

It  fills  my  heart  with  pain, 
But  touch  some  note  of  sadness, 

Some  melancholy  strain, 
That  tells  of  days  departed, 

Of  hopes  for  ever  flown — 
Some  golden  dream  of  other  years, 

To  riper  age  unknown. 

The  captive,  bowed  in  sadness, 

Impatient  to  be  free, 
Might  call  that  lay  of  gladness 

The  voice  of  liberty  : 
Again  the  joyous  carol, 

Warm  gushing,  peals  along, 
As  if  thy  very  latest  breath 

Would  spend  itself  in  song. 

Oft  as  I  hear  those  tones  of  thine 

Will  thoughts  like  these  intrude— 
"If  once  compared,  thy  lot  with  mine, 

How  cold  my  gratitude  ; 
Though  gloom  01  sunshine  mark  the  hours, 

Thy  bosom,  ne'ertheless, 
Will  pour,  as  from  its  inmost  fount, 

The  tide  of  thankfulness." 


GOOD  FRIDAY. 

THE  scene  is  fresh  before  us, 

When  Jesus  drained  the  cup, 
As  new  the  day  comes  o'er  us 

When  he  was  offered  up — 
The  veil  in  sunder  rending, 

The  type's  and  shadows  flee, 
W^hile  heaven  and  earth  are  bending 

Their  gaze  on  Calvary. 

Should  mortal  dare  in  numbers, 

Where  angels,  trembling,  stand — 
Or  wake  the  harp  that  slumbers 

In  flaming  seraph's  hand  ] 
Then  tell  the  wondrous  story 

Where  rolls  Salvation's  wave, 
And  give  Him  all  the  glory, 

Who  came  the  lost  to  save. 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


(Born  17S5— Died  1845). 


IT  may  be  doubted  whether,  in  the  long 
catalogue  of  those  whose  works  illustrate 
and  vindicate  the  intellectual  character  and 
position  of  woman,  there  are  many  names 
that  will  shine  with  a  clearer,  steadier,  and 
more  enduring  lustre,  than  that  of  MARIA 

DEL  OCCIDENTE. 

MARIA  GOWEN,  afterward  Mrs.  BROOKS, 
upon  whom  this  title  was  conferred  origin 
ally,  I  believe,  by  the  poet  Southey,  was  de 
scended  from  a  Welsh  family  that  settled  in 
Charlestown,  near  Boston,  sometime  before 
the  Revolution.  A  considerable  portion  of 
the  liberal  fortune  of  her  grandfather  was 
lost  by  the  burning  of  that  city  in  1775,  and 
he  soon  afterward  removed  to  Medford, 
across  the  Mystic  river,  where  Maria  Gowen 
was  born  about  the  year  1795.  Her  father 
was  a  man  of  education,  and  among  his  inti 
mate  friends  were  several  of  the  professors 
of  Harvard  college,  whose  occasional  visits 
varied  the  pleasures  of  a  rural  life.  From 
this  society  she  derived,  at  an  early  period, 
a  taste  for  letters  and  learning.  Before  the 
completion  of  her  ninth  year,  she  had  com 
mitted  to  memory  many  passages  from  the 
best  poets ;  and  her  conversation  excited 
special  wonder  by  its  elegance,  variety,  and 
wisdom.  She  grew  in  beauty,  too,  as  she 
grew  in  years,  and  when  her  father  died,  a 
bankrupt,  before  she  had  attained  the  age  of 
fourteen,  she  was  betrothed  to  a  merchant 
of  Boston,  who  undertook  the  completion  of 
her  education,  and  as  soon  as  she  quitted  the 
school  was  married  to  her.  Her  early  wo 
manhood  was  passed  in  commercial  afflu 
ence  ;  but  the  loss  of  several  vessels  at  sea 
in  which  her  husband  was  interested  was 
followed  by  other  losses  on  land,  and  years 
were  spent  in  comparative  indigence.  In 
that  remarkable  book,  Idomen,  or  The  Vale 
of  Yumuri,  she  says,  referring  fc'  this  period : 
"  Our  table  had  been  hospitaule,  our  doors 
open  to  many  ;  but  to  part  with  our  well- 
garnished  dwelling  had  now  become  inevit 
able.  We  retired,  with  one  servant,  to  a  re 
mote  house  of  meaner  dimensions,  and  Avere 


sought  no  longer  by  those  who  had  come  m 
our  wealth.  I  looked  earnestly  around  me  ; 
the  present  was  cheerless,  the  future  daik 
and  fearful.  My  parents  were  dead,  my  few 
relatives  in  distant  countries,  where  they 
thought  perhaps  but  little  of  my  happiness. 
Burleigh  I  had  never  loved  other  than  as  a 
father  and  protector  ;  but  he  had  been  the 
benefactor  to  my  fallen  family,  and  to  him  I 
owed  comfort,  education,  and  every  ray  of 
pleasure  that  had  glanced  before  me  in  this 
world.  Bat  the  sun  of  his  energies  was  set 
ting,  and  the  faults  which  had  balanced  his 
virtues  increased  as  his  fortune  declined.  He 
might  live  through  many  years  of  misery, 
and  to  be  devoted  to  him  was  my  duty  while  a 
spark  of  his  life  remained.  I  strove  to  nerve 
my  heart  for  the  worst.  Still  there  were  mo 
ments  when  fortitude  became  faint  with  en 
durance,  and  visions  of  happiness  that  might 
have  been  mine  came  smiling  to  my  ima 
gination.  I  wept  and  prayed  in  agony." 

In  this  period,  poetry  was  resorted  to  for 
amusement  arid  consolation.  At  nineteen 
she  wrote  a  metrical  romance,  in  seven  can 
tos,  but  it  was  never  published.  It  was  fol 
lowed  by  many  shorter  lyrical  pieces,  which 
were  printed  anonymously  ;  and  in  1820, 
afcer  favorable  judgments  of  it  had  been  ex 
pressed  by  some  literary  friends,*  she  gave 
to  the  public  a  small  volume  entitled  Judith, 
Esther,  ar,d  other  Poems,  by  a  Lover  of  the 
Fine  Arts.  It  contained  many  fine  passages, 
and  gave  promise  of  the  powers  of  which 

*  One  of  the  friend?  here  alluded  to  was  the  late  Dr. 

Kirklaml  president  of  Harvard  college  On  a  blank  leaf 
of  the  first  copy  of  the  volume  that  she  receive,],  she  wroto 
the  following  lines,  which  have  not  before  been  printed. 

Should  e'er  my  haK-iled-ed  mn.-e  at  cam  the  height 

She  TieuibJini;-  I'.ajs.  jet  (ears- to  tempt  ii"  more, 
Still  will  she  bless,  thoiii-h  wounded  in  ber  flight, 

Th.-  ,-ene.ons  hand  that  gave  her  stve.n-th  to  soar. 
I'.nt  should  resistless  tempests  lierr-l.v  meet. 

.»,,,(  |  .,. .  vi    struggling,  '"  ''"•  whelming  wave, 
Eve',  tl,"'n'  one  tender,  patoBil  pulse  shall  beat 

In  her" torn  heart,  for  l.ini  who  strove  to  sav« 

Writing  to  me  in  L842,  Mrs.  Krooks  enclose,)  these  vor«-> 
and  observed  :  M  n-call  then,  after  an  nuervalo  twen  y 
ve'ir<  Thev  have  meaning  and  siticen!>  m  tnem  ,  Ml 

Laving  during  that  time  extended  my  acquaintance  with 
muw?  and  an-els,  I  can  not  now  bear  to  see  either  ol 
m  represented  with  pluma-e  r»ti  rheir  wings.  ><>me 
of  Ae  most  celebrated  painters  have,  however,  set  tfc. 
example."  ,. , 


70 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


the  maturity  is  illustrated  by  Zophiiil.     The 
Volume  was  dedicated  to  a  friend 

who  cheered  her  first  faint  lays 
With  the  hope-kindling  breath  of  timely  praise, 

in  the  following  verses : 

Lady,  I've  woven  for  thee  a  wreath — 
Though  pale  the  buds  that  gem  it, 

Think  of  the  gloom  they  grew  beneath, 
A  or  utterly  contemn  it. 

Scarce  in  my  cradle  was  I  laid, 
Ere  Fate  relentless  bound  me, 

Deep  in  a  narrow  vale  of  shade, 

Where  prisoning  rocks  surround  me. 

Lady,  I  've  culled  a  wreath  for  you, 

From  the  lew  llowers  that  grow  there. 

Because  'twas  all  that  I  could  do 
To  lull  the  sense  of  wo  there. 

Yet,  lady,  I  have  known  delight 
The  heart  witli  bliss  overilowing, 

Endearing  forms  have  blest  my  sight 
With  soul  and  beauty  glowing. 

For  Hope  came  all  arrayed  in  light, 

And  pitying  stood  before  me, 
Smiled  on  each  flinty  barrier's  height, 

And  to  its  summit  bore  me. 

She  showed  many  a  scene  divine — 
She  told  me — and  descended — 

Of  joys  that  never  must  be  mine — 
And  then — her  power  was  ended. 

Oh,  pleasures  dead  as  soon  as  born, 

To  be  forgotten  never  ! — 
Oh,  moments  fleeting,  few,  and  gone, 

To  be  regretted  ever  ! 

A  few  sweet  waves  of  glowing  light 

Upon  Time's  dreary  ocean, 
Light  gales  that  wake  the  dead,  calm  night 

To  momentary  motion ; 

Bright  beams  that  in  their  beauty  bless 

A  dark  and  desert  plain, 
To  show  its  fearful  loneliness, 

And  disappear  again. 

Yet  oft  she  hovers  o'er  me  now, 

Each  soothing  effort  making : 
So  mothers  kiss  the  infant's  brow, 

But  can  not  cure  its  aching. 

Then,  lady,  oil,  accept  my  wreath, 
Though  all  besides  condemn  it ; 

Think  of  the  gloom  it  grew  beneath, 
Nor  utterly  contemn  it. 

In  the  two  principal  poems  are  presented  char 
acters  entirely  different  in  mind  and  person, 
but  equally  entitled  to  admiration.  In  Judith 
are  exhibited  prudence,  fortitude,  and  decis 
ion,  softened  by  a  feminine  sensibility;  in 
listher  a  soul  painfully  alive  to  every  tender 
emotion,  and  a  noble  elevation  of  mind  strug 
gling  with  constitutional  softness  and  timid 
ity.  Many  passages  remind  us  of  her  ma- 


turest  style,  as  this  description  of  the  slayer 
of  the  Assyrian  : 

With  even  step,  in  mourning  garb  arrayed, 

Fair  Judith  walked,  and  grandeur  marked  her  air 
Though  humble  dust,  in  pious  sprinklings  laid, 

Soiled  the  dark  tresses  of  her  copious  hair. 
And  this  picture  of  a  boy : 
Softly  supine  his  rosy  limbs  reposed, 

His  locks  curled  high,  leaving  the  forehead  bar* 
And  o:er  his  eyes  the  light  lids  gentlv  closed, 

As  they  had  feared  to  hide  the  brilliance  there. 

And  this  description  of  the  preparations  of 

Esther  to  appear  before  Ahasuerus: 

"  Take  ye,  my  maids,  this  mournful  garb  away ; 

Bring  all  my  glowing  gems  and  garments  fair ; 
A  nation's  fate  impending  hangs  to-day 

But  on  my  beauty  and  your  duteous  care." 

Prompt  to  obey,  her  ivory  form  they  lave ; 

Some  comb  and  braid  her  hair  of  wavy  gold ; 
Some  softly  wipe  away  the  limpid  wave     [rolled. 

That  o'er  her  dimply  limbs  in  drops  of  fragrance 

Refreshed  and  faultless  from  their  hands  she  came 
Like  form  celestial  clad  in  raiment  bright; 

O'er  all  her  garb  rich  India's  treasures  flame, 
In  mingling  beams  of  rainbow-colored  light. 

Graceful  she  entered  the  forbidden  court, 

Her  bosom  throbbing  with  her  purpose  high  ; 

Slow  were  her  steps,  and  unassured  her  port, 
While  hope  just  trembled  in  her  azure  eye. 

Light  on  the  marble  fell  her  ermine  tread, 

And  when  the  king,  reclined  in  musing  mood, 

Lifts,  at  the  gentle  sound,  his  stately  head, 
Low  at  his  feet  the  sweet  intruder  stood. 

Among  the  shorter  poems  are  several  that 
are  marked  by  fancy  and  feeling,  and  a  grace 
ful  versification,  of  one  of  which,  an  elegy, 
these  are  the  opening  verses: 

Lone  in  the  desert,  drear  and  deep, 
Beneath  the  forest's  whispering  shade, 

Where  brambles  twine  and  mosses  creep, 
The  lovely  Charlotte's  grave  is  made. 

But  though  no  breathing  marble  there 
Shall  gleam  in  beauty  through  the  gloom, 

The  turf  that  hides  her  golden  hair 

With  sweetest  desert-flowers  shall  bloom. 

And  while  the  moon  her  tender  light 
Upon  the  hallowed  scene  shall  fling, 

The  mocking-bird  shall  sit  all  night 
Among  the  dewy  leaves,  and  sing. 

The  following  clever  translation  of  tne 
Greek  of  Moschus,  from  this  volume,  was 
made  in  the  author's  seventeenth  year : 

CUPID    THE    KUXAWAT. 

LTSTKX,  listen,  softly,  clear — 
Venus'  accents  woo  the  ear ! 
"  Gentle  stranger,  hast  thou  seen," 
Thus  begins  the  beauteous  queen  : 
"  Hast  thou  seen  my  Cupid  stray, 
Lurking,  near  the  public  way  1 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


71 


Briii-  him  back   and  tlnu  slv.ilt  sip 
A  kiss  at  least  from  Venus'  lip. 
'T  is  a  boy  of  well-known  name, 
Thou  canst  know  him  by  his  fame : 
Fair  his  face,  but  overspread, 
Cheek  and  brow,  with  rosy  red ; 
And  his  eyes  of  azure  bright 
Sparkle  with  a  fiery  light. 
Small  and  snowy  are  his  hands, 
But  their  tender  power  commands 
Even  Pluto's  empire  wide; 
Acheron's  polluted  tide 
Loses  at  their  gentle  waving 
Half  the  terror  of  its  raving. 
At  his  dimpled  shoulders  move 
Plumy  pinions  like  a  dove, 
And  or  youth  or  maiden  meeting, 
When  among  the  flowers  he 's  flitting, 
Like  a  swallow  swift  he  darts, 
Perching  on  their  beating  hearts. 
From  his  back  a  quiver  fair, 
Golden  like  his  curly  hair, 
Pendent  falls  in  purple  ties, 
Scattering  radiance  as  he  flies. 
He  the  slender  dart  can  throw, 
Singing  from  his  polished  bow, 
Far  as  heaven :  nor  will  he  spare 
Even  me,  his  mother,  there. 
And  whene'er  a  victim  bleeds, 
Laughing,  glorying  in  his  deeds, 
Still  with  added  fires  to  scorch, 
He,  a  little  hidden  torch, 
Deeming  not  his  mischief  done, 
Kindles  at  the  glowing  sun. 
If  the  urchin  thou  shouldst  find, 
Let  not  pity  move  thy  mind  ; 
Suffer  not  his  tears  to  grieve  thee, 
They  but  trickle  to  deceive  thee. 
If  he  smile  upon  thee,  haste, 
Heed  him  not,  but  bind  him  fast. 
Should  he  pout  his  lips  to  kiss, 
Oh  !  avoid  the  treacherous  bliss  ! 
Turn  thy  head,  nor  dare  to  meet 
Of  his  breath  the  poison  sweet. 
Should  he  ply  his  potent  charms, 
And  presenting  thee  his  arms, 
Graceful  kneel,  and  sweetly  say, 
'  Take  my  proffered  gif  s,  I  pray,' 
Do  not  touch  them — still  disdain — 
All  are  fraught  with  venorned  pain." 

In  the  summer  ol'  1823  Mr.  Brooks  died, 
and  a  paternal  uncle  soon  afier  invited  the 
poetess  to  Cuba,  for  which  island  she  sailed 
on  the  20th  of  the  following  O:  ober.  Here, 
in  1824,  she  completed  the  first  canto  of  Zo- 
phiel,  or  The  Bride  of  Seven,  which  had  been 
planned  and  nearly  written  before  she  left 
Boston,  and  it  was  published  in  that  city  in 
1825.  The  second  canto  was  finished  in  Cu 
ba  in  the  opening  of  1827  ;  the  third,  fourth, 
and  fifth,  in  1828,  and  the  sixth  in  the  be 
ginning  of  1829.  The  uncle  of  Mrs.  Brooks 


was  now  dead,  arid  he  had  left  to  ner  his 
coffee  plantation  and  other  property,  which 
afforded  her  a  liberal  income.  She  returned 
asrain  to  the  United  States,  and  resided  more 
than  a  year  in  the  vicinity  of  Dartmouth  Col 
lege,  where  her  son  was  pursuing  his  stud 
ies ;  and  in. the  autumn  of  1830,  in  company 
with  her  only  surviving  brother,  Mr.  Ham 
mond  Gowen,  of  Quebec,  she  went  to  Paris, 
where  she  passed  the  following  winter.  The 
curious  and  learned  notes  to  Zophiel  were 
written  in  various  places  —  some  in  Cuba, 
some  in  Hanover,  some  in  Canada  (which  she 
visited  during  her  residence  at  Hanover), 
some  at  Paris,  and  the  rest  at  Keswick,  in 
England,  the  home  of  Robert  Southey,  where 
she  passed  the  spring  of  1831.  When  she 
quitted  the  hospitable  home  of  this  much 
honored  and  much  attached  friend,  she  left 
with  him  the  completed  work,  which  he  sub 
sequently  saw  through  the  press,  correcting 
the  proofsheets  himself,  previous  to  its  ap 
pearance  in  London,  in  1833.  On  leaving 
Keswick,  Mrs.  Brooks  addressed  to  Southey 
the  following  poem  ;  and  the  subsequent  cor 
respondence  between  the  two  poets,  which  I 
have  seen,  shows  that  the  promise  of  con 
tinued  regard  was  fulfilled  : 

TO    ROBERT    SOUTHEY,    T.S'4.. 

On  !  laureled  bard,  how  can  I  part, 
Those  cheering  smiles  no  more  to  see, 

Until  my  soothed  and  solaced  heart 
Pours  forth  one  grateful  lay  to  thee  ? 

Fair  virtue  tuned  thy  youthful  breath, 
And  peace  and  pleasure  bless  thee  now ; 

For  love  and  beauty  guard  the  wreath 
That  blooms  upon  thy  manly  brow. 

The  Indian,  leaning  on  his  bow, 

On  hostile  cliff,  in  desert  drear, 
Cast  with  less  joy  his  glance  below. 

When  came  some  friendly  warrior  near ; — 

The  native  dove  of  that  warm  isle 

Where  oft,  with  flowers,  my  lyrt,  was  drest. 
Sees  with  less  joy  the  sun  a  while 

When  vertic  rains  have  drenched  her  nest, 
Than  I,  a  stranger,  first  beheld 

Thine  eye's  harmonious  welcome  given 
With  gentle  word,  which,  as  it  swelled, 

Came  to  my  heart  benign  as  heaven. 

Soft  be  thy  sleep  as  mists  that  rest 

On  Skiddaw's  top  at  summer  morn  ; 
Smooth  be  thy  days  as  Derwent's  bivnst 

When  summer  light  is  almost  gone .' 
And  yet,  for  thee  why  breathe  a  prayer  7 

I  deem  thy  fate  is  -jiven  in  trust 
To  seraphs,  "who  by  d  lily  care 

Would  prove  that  Hc:ivcn  is  not  unjust 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


And  treasured  shall  thine  ima^e  be 
In  Memory's  purest,  holiest  shrine, 

While  truth  and  honor  glow  in  thee, 
Or  life's  warm,  quivering  pulse  is  mine. 

The  materials  of  Zophiel  are  universal 
that  is,  such  as  may  be  appropriated  by  even 
polished  nation.     In  all  the  most  beautifu 
oriental  systems  of  religion,  including  ou; 
own,  may  be  found  such  beings  as  its  char 
acters.     The  early  fathers  of  Christianity  no 
only  believed  in  them,  but  wrote  cumbrous 
iblios  upon  their  nature  and  attributes.     It  is 
a  fact  deserving  cf  notice,  that  they  never 
doubted  the  existence  and  the  power  of  the 
Grecian  and  Roman  gods,  but  supposed  them 
to  be  fallen  angels,  who  had  caused  them 
selves  to  be  worshipped    under   particular 
forms  and  for  particular  characteristics.    To 
what  an  extent  and  to  how  very  late  a  period 
this  belief  has  prevailed,  may  be  learned  from 
a  remarkable  little  work  of  Fontenelle,*  in 
which  that  pleasing  writer  endeavors  serious 
ly  to  disprove  that  any  preternatural  power 
was  illustrated  in  the  responses  of  the  ancient 
oracles.  The  Christian  belief  in  good  and  evil 
angels  is  too  beautiful  to  be  laid  aside.    Their 
actual  and  present  existence  can  be  disproved 
neither  by  analogy,  philosophy,  nor  theolo 
gy,  nor  can  it  be  questioned  wi  thout  casting  a 
doubt  also  upon  the  whole  system  of  our  reli 
gion.    This  religion,  by  many  a  fanciful  skep 
tic,  has  been  called  barren  and  gloomy ;  but 
setting  aside  all  the  legends  of  the  Jews,  and 
confining  ourselves  entirely  to  the  generally 
received  Scriptures,  there  will  be  found  suffi 
cient  food  for  an  imagination  warm  as  that  of 
Homer,  Apelles,  or  Praxiteles.   It  is  astonish 
ing  that  such  rich  materials  for  poetry  should 
for  so  many  centuries  have  been  so  little  re 
garded,  appropriated,  or  even  perceived. 

Tin-  story  of  Zophiel,  though  accompanied 
by  many  notes,  is  simple  and  easily  followed. 
Reduced  to  prose,  and  a  child,  or  any  person 
of  the  commonest  apprehension,  would  read 
it  with  satisfaction.  It  is  in  six  cantos,  and 
is  supposed  to  occupy  the  time  of  nine  months: 
iVnin  the  blooming  of  roses  at  Echatana  to  the 
coming  in  of  spices  at  Babylon.  Of  this  time 
the  greater  part  is  supposed  to  elapse  be- 
tvvfcii  the  second  and  third  cantos,  where 
Zophiel  thus  speaks  of  Egla  to  Phraerion: 

^et  still  she  bloomed — uninjured,  innocent 

Though  now  for  seven  sweet  moons  by  Zophiel 
watched  and  wooed. 


*  H:«t')i»-c  des  Oracles. 


The  king  of  Medea,  introduced  in  the  sec 
ond  canto,  is  an  ideal  personage  ;  but  the  his 
tory  of  that  country,  near  the  time  of  the 
second  captivity,  is  very  confused,  and  more 
than  one  young  prince  like  Sardius  might 
have  reigned  and  died  without  a  record.     So 
much  of  the  main  story,  however,  as  relates 
to  human  life  is  based  upon  sacred  or  profane 
history  ;  and  we  have  sufficient  authority  for 
the  legend  of  an  angel's  passion  for  one  of 
the  fair  daughters  of  our  own  world.     It  was 
a  custom  in  the  early  ages  to  style  heroes,  to 
raise  to  the  rank  of  demigods,  men  who  were 
distinguished  for  great  abilities,  qualities,  or 
actions.     Above  such  men  the  angels  who 
are  supposed  to  have  visited  the  earth,  were 
but  one  grade  exalted,  and  they  were  capable 
of  participating  in  human  pains  and  pleas 
ures.     Zophiel  is  described  as  one  of  those 
who  fell  with  Lucifer,  not  from  ambition  or 
turbulence,  but  from  friendship  and  excessive 
admiration  of  the  chief  disturber  of  the  tran 
quillity  of  heaven:   as  he   declares,  when 
thwarted  by  his  betrayer,  in  the  fourth  canto  : 
Though  the  first  seraph  formed,  how  could  I  tell 
The  ways  of  guile  ?      What  marvels  I  believed 
When  cold  ambition  mimicked  love  so  well 
That  half  the  sons  of  heaven  looked  on  deceived ! 

During  the  whole  interview  in  which  this 
stanza  occurs,  the  deceiver  of  men  and  an 
gels  exhibits  his  alleged  power  of  inflicting 
pain.  He  says  to  Zophiel,  after  arresting  his 
course: 

"  Sublime  Intelligence  ! 

Once  chosen  for  my  friend  and  worthy  me  : 
Not  so  wouldst  thou  have  labored  to  be  hence, 

Had  my  emprise  been  crowned  with  victory. 
When  I  was  bright  in  heaven,  thy  seraph  eyes 

Sought  only  mine.     But  he  who  every  power 
Beside,  while  hope  allured  him,  could  despise, 

Changed  and  forsook  me  in  misfortune's  hour." 

To  which  Zophiel  replies : 

:  Changed,  and  forsook  thee  ?  this  from  thee  to  me  1 

Once  noble  spirit !     Oh  !  had  not  too  much 
My  o'erfond  heart  adored  thy  fallacy, 

I  had  not  now  been  here  to  bear  thy  keen  reproach ; 

'"orsook  thee  in  misfortune  ?   at  thy  side 

I  closer  fought  as  perils  thickened  round, 
Watched  o'er  thee  fallen :  the  light  of  heav'n  denied, 

But  proved  my  love  more  fervent  and  profound. 

'rone  as  thou  wert,  had  I  been  mortal  horn, 

And  owned  as  many  lives  as  leaves  there  be, 
vrom  all  Hyrcania  by  his  tempest  torn 

I  had  lost,  one  by  one,  and  given  the  last  for  thee 
Oh  !   had  thy  plighted  pact  of  faith  been  kept, 

Still  unaccomplished  were  the  curse  of  sin; 
Mid  all  the  woes  thy  ruined  followers  wept,  ' 

Had  friendship  lingered,  hell  could  nothave  been." 


MARIA   BROOKS, 


Phraerion,  another  fallen  angel,  but  of  a 
nature  gentler  than  that  of  Zophiel,  is  thus 
introduced : 
Harmless  Phraorion,  formed  to  dwell  on  high, 

Retained  the  looks  that  had  been  his  above ; 
And  his  harmonious  lip,  and  sweet  blue  eye, 

Soothed  the  fallen  seraph's  heart,  and  changed  his 
]N  o  soul  creative  in  this  being  bom,    [scorn  to  love  ; 

Its  restless,  daring,  fond  aspirings  hid ; 
Within  the  vortex  of  rebellion  drawn, 

He  joined  the  shining  ranks  as  others  did. 
Success  but  little  had  advanced  ;  defeat 

He  thought  so  little,  scarce  to  him  were  worse ; 
And,  as  he  held  in  heaven  inferior  seat, 

Less  was  his  bliss,  and  lighter  was  his  curse. 
He  formed  no  plans  for  happiness  •  content 

To  curl  the  tendril,  fold  the  bud  ;  his  pain 
So  light,  he  scarcely  felt  his  banishment. 

Zophiel,  perchance,  had  held  him  in  disdain ; 
But,  formed  for  friendship,  from  his  o'erfrauaht  soul 

'T  was  such  relief  his  burning  thoughts  to  pour 
In  other  ears,  that  oft  the  strong  control       [more. 

Of  pride  he  felt  them  burst,  and  could  restrain  no 
Zophisl  was  soft,  but  yet  all  flame ;  by  turns 

Love,  grief,  remorse,  shame,  pity,  jealousy, 
Each  boundless  in  his  breast,  impels  or  burns : 

His  joy  was  bliss,  his  pain  was  agony. 

Such  are  the  principal  preterhuman  char 
acters  in  the  poem.  Egla,  the  heroine,  is  a 
Hebress,  of  perfect  beauty,  who  lives  with 
her  parents  not  far  from  the  city  of  Ecbatana, 
and  has  been  saved  by  stratagem  from  a  gen 
eral  massacre  of  captives  under  a  former  king 
of  Medea.  Being  brought  before  the  reign 
ing  monarch  to  answer  for  the  supposed 
murder  of  Meles,  she  exclaims  : 

Sad  from  my  birth,  nay,  born  upon  that  day 
When  perished  all  my  race,  my  infant  ears 

Were  opened  first  with  groans ;  and  the  first  ray 
I  saw,  came  dimly  through  my  mother's  tears. 

Zophiel  is  described  throughout  the  poem 
as  burning  with  the  admiration  of  virtue,  yet 
frequently  betrayed  into  crime  by  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure.  Straying  accidentally  to  the 
grove  of  Egla,  he  is  struck  with  her  beauty, 
and  finds  consolation  in  her  presence.  Hi  s  first 
appearance  to  her  is  beautifully  described  : 
in  the  dusky  room,  where  she  mourned  her 
destiny,  is  suddenly  a  light,  then  something 
like  a  silvery  cloud  : 

The  form  it  hid 
Modest  emerged,  as  might  a  youth  beseem ; 

Save  a  slight  scarf,  his  beauty  bare,  and  white 
As  cygnet's  bosom  on  some  silver  stream; 

Or  youno:  Narcissus,  when  to  woo  the  light 
Of  iis  first  morn,  that  floweret  open  springs ; 

And  near  the  maid  he  comes  with  timid  gaze, 
And  gently  fans  her  with  his  full-spread  wings, 

Transparent  as  the  cooling  gush  that  plays 


From  ivory  fount.     Each  bright  prismatic  tint 

Still  vanishing,  returning,  blending,  changing 
About  their  tender  mystic  texture  glint, 

Like  colors  o'er  the  fullblown  bubble  ranging, 
That  pretty  urchins  launch  upon  the  air, 

And  laugh  to  see  it  vanish ;  yet,  sr  bright, 
More  like — and  even  that  were  laint  compare — • 

As  shaped  from  some  new  rainbow.    Rosy  light, 
Like  that  which  pagans  say  the  dewy  car 

Precedes  of  their  Aurora,  clipped  him  round, 
Retiring  as  he  moved ;  and  evening's  star 

Shamed  not  the  diamond  coronal  that  bound 
His  curly  locks.     And  still  to  teach  kis  face 

Expression  dear  to  her  he  wooed,  he  sought ; 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  little  vase 

Of  virgin  gold,  in  strange  devices  wrought. 

He  appears  however  at  an  unfortunate  mo 
ment,  for  the  fair  Judean  has  just  yielded  to 
the  entreaties  of  her  mother  and  assented  to 
proposals  offered  by  Meles,  a  noble  of  the 
country  ;  but  Zophiel  causes  his  rival  to  ex 
pire  suddenly  on  entering  the  bridal  apart 
ment,  and  his  previous  life  at  Babylon,  as 
revealed  in  the  fifth  canto,  shows  that  he  was 
not  undeserving  of  his  doom.  Despite  her 
extreme  sensibility,  Egla  has  much  strength 
of  character ;  she  is  conscientious  and  cau 
tious,  and  she  regards  the  advances  of  Zo 
phiel  with  distrust  and  apprehension.  Meles 
being  missed,  she  is  brought  to  court  to  an 
swer  for  his  murder.  Her  sole  fear  is  for  her 
parents,  who  are  the  only  Hebrews  in  the 
kingdom,  and  are  suffered  to  live  but  through 
the  clemency  of  Sardius,  a  young  prince  who 
has  lately  come  to  the  throne,  and  who,  like 
many  oriental  monarchs,  reserves  to  himself 
the  privilege  of  decreeing  death.  The  king 
is  convinced  of  her  innocence,  and,  struck 
with  her  extraordinary  beauty  and  character, 
resolves  suddenly  to  make  her  his  queen. 
We  know  of  nothing  in  its  way  finer  than 
the  description  which  follows,  of  her  intro 
duction,  in  the  simple  costume  of  her  coun 
try,  to  a  gorgeous  banqueting  hall  in  which 
he  sits  with  his  assembled  chiefs : 
With  unassured  yet  graceful  step  advancing, 

The  light  vermilion  of  her  cheek  more  warm 
For  doubtful  modesty ;  while  all  were  glancing 

Over  the  strange  attire  that  well  became  such  form. 
To  lend  her  space  the  admiring  band  gave  way ; 

The  sandals  on  her  silvery  feet  were  blue ; 
Of  saffron  tint  her  robe,  as  when  young  day 

Spreads  softly  o'er  the  heavens,  and  tints  the 

trembling  dew. 
Light  was  that  robe  as  mist ;  and  not  a  gem 

Or  ornament  impedes  its  wavy  fold, 
Long  and  profuse,  save  that,  above  its  hem, 

'Twas  broidered  with  pomegranate  wreath,  m 
gold. 


71 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


And,  hv  a  silken  cincture,  broad  and  blue, 

In  shapely  guise  about  the  waist  confined, 

Blent  with  the  .curls  that,  of  a  lighter  hue, 

Halt' floated,  waving  in  their  length  behind; 

The  other  halt,  in  braided  tresses  twined, 

Was  decked  \\  iih  rows  of  pearls,  and  sapphire's  az- 
Arranged  with  curious  skill  to  imitate          [ure  too. 

The  sweet  acacia's  blossoms ;  just  as  live 
And  droop  those  tender  flowers  in  natural  state , 

And  so  the  trembling  gems  seemed  sensitive, 
And  pendent,  sometimes  touch  her  neck ;  and  there 

Seemed  shrinking  from  its  softness  as  alive. 
And  round  her  arms,  flour-white  and  round  and  fair, 

Slight  bandelets  were  twined  of  colors  five, 
Like  little  rainbows  seemly  on  those  arms ; 

None  of  that  court  had  seen  the  like  before, 
Soft,  fragrant,  bright — so  much  like  heaven  her 

It  scarce  could  seem  idolatry  to  adore,    [charms, 
He  who  beheld  her  hand  forgot  her  face ; 

Yet  in  that  face  was  all  beside  forgot; 
And  he  who,  as  she  went,  beheld  her  pace, 

And  locks  profuse,  had  said, "  Nay,  turn  thee  not." 
Placed  on  a  banquet  couch  beside  the  king, 

Mid  many  a  sparkling  guest  no  eye  forbore ; 
But,  like  their  darts,  the  warrior  princes  fling 

Such  looks  as  seemed  to  pierce,  and  scan  her  o'er 
Nor  met  alone  the  glare  of  lip  and  eye —  [and  o'er; 

Charms,  but  not  rare  :  the  gazr-r  stern  and  cool, 
Who  sought  but  faults,  nor  fault  or  spot  could  spy  ; 

In  every  limb,  joint,  vein,  the  maid  was  beautiful, 
Save  that  her  lip,  like  some  bud-bursting  flower, 

Just  scorned  the  bounds  of  symmetry,  perchance, 
But  by  its  rashness  gained  an  added  power, 

Heightening  perfection  to  luxuriance. 
But  that  was  only  when  she  smiled,  and  when 

Dissolved  the  intense  expression  of  her  eye ; 
And  had  her  spirit  love  first  seen  her  then, 

He  had  not  doubted  her  mortality. 

Idaspes,  the  Medean  vizier,  or  prime  min 
ister,  has  reflected  on  the  maiden's  story,  and 
is  alarmed  for  the  safety  of  his  youthful  sov 
ereign,  who  consents  to  some  delay  and  ex 
periment,  but  will  not  be  dissuaded  from  his 
design  until  five  inmates  of  his  palace  have 
fallen  dead  in  the  captive's  apartment.  The 
last  of  these  is  Altheetor,  a  favorite  of  the 
king  (whose  Greek  name  is  intended  to  ex 
press  his  qualities),  and  the  circumstances  of 
his  death,  and  the  consequent  grief  of  Egla 
and  despair  of  Zophiel,  are  painted  with  a 
beauty,  power,  and  passion,  scarcely  sur 
passed  : 

Touching  his  golden  harp  to  prelude  sweet, 

Entered  the  youth,  so  pensive,  pale,  and  fair; 
Advanced  respectful  to  the  virgin's  feet,      [there. 

And,  lowly  bending  down,  made  tuneful  parlance 
Like  perfume,  soft  his  gentle  accents  rose, 

\nd  sweetly  thrilled  the  gilded  roof  along; 
Mis  \\;inu,  devoted  soul  no  terror  knows, 

And  trutn  and  love  lend  fervor  to  his  song. 
She  hides  her  face  upon  her  couch,  that  there 

She  nvi?  not  see  him  die.    No  groan — she  springs 


Frantic  between  a  hope  beam  and  despair, 

And  twines  her  long  hair  round  him  as  he  sings 
Then  thus :  "  Oh  !  being,  who  unseen,  but  near 

Art  hovering  now,  behold  and  pity  me  ! 
For  love,  hope,  beauty,  music — all  that's  dear, 

Look,  look  on  me,  and  spare  my  agony  ! 
Spirit !  in  mercy  make  not  me  the  cause, 

The  hateful  cause,  of  this  kind  being's  death ! 
In  pity  kill  me  first !     He  lives — he  draws — 

Thou  wilt  not  blast!  he  draws  his  harmless  breath!" 

Still  lives  Altheetor;  still  unguarded  strays 

One  hand  o'er  his  fallen  "tyre;  but  all  his  soul 
Is  lost — given  up.     He  fain  would  turn  to  gaze, 

But  can  not  turn,  so  twined.  Now  all  that  stole 
Through  every  vein  and  thrilled  each  separate  nerve, 

Himself  could  not  have  told,  all  wound  and  clasped 
In  her  white  arms  and  hair.     Ah  !  can  they  serve 

To  save  him  1  "  What  a  sea  of  sweets !"  he  gasped, 
But 't  was  delight,  sound,  fragrance,  all,were  breath 
ing. 

Still  swell'd  the  transport:  "Let  me  look  and  thank,' 
He  sighed,  (celestial  smiles  his  lips  enwreathing ;) 

"  I  die — but  ask  no  more,"  he  said,  and  sank — 
Still  by  her  arms  supported — lower — lower — 

As  by  soft  sleep  oppressed ;  so  calm,  so  fair, 
He  rested  on  the  purple  tapestried  floor, 

It  seemed  an  angel  lay  reposing  there. 

Ar>d  Zophiel  exclaims  — 

"  He  died  of  love,  of  the  o'erperfect  joy 

Of  being  pitied — prayed  for — pressed — by  thee  ! 
Oh,  for  the  fate  of  that  devoted  boy 

I  'd  sell  my  birthright  to  eternity. 
I  'm  not  the  cause  of  this,  thy  last  distress. 

Nay  !  look  upon  thy  spirit  ere  he  flies ! 
Look  on  me  once,  and  learn  to  hate  me  less !" 

He  said,  and  tears  fell  fast  from  his  immortal  eyes. 

Beloved  and  admired  at  first,  Egla  becomes 
an  object  of  hatred  and  fear  ;  for  Zophiel  be 
ing  invisible  to  others,  her  story  is  discred 
ited,  and  she  is  suspected  of  murdering  by 
some  baleful  art  all  who  have  died  in  her 
presence.  She  is,  however,  sent  safely  to 
her  home,  and  lives,  as  usual,  in  retirement 
with  her  parents.  The  visits  of  Zophiel  are 
now  unimpeded.  He  instructs  the  young 
Jewess  in  music  and  poetry  ;  his  admiration 
and  affection  grow  with  the  hours ;  and  he 
exerts  his  immortal  energies  to  preserve  her 
from  the  least  pain  or  sorrow,  but  selfishly 
confines  her  as  much  as  possible  to  solitude, 
and  permits  for  her  only  such  amusements 
as  he  himself  can  minister.  Her  confidence 
in  him  increases,  and  in  her  gentle  society 
he  almost  fjrgets  his  fall  and  banishment. 

But  the  difference  in  their  natures  causes 
him  continual  anxiety  ;  knowing  her  mortali 
ty,  he  is  always  in  fear  that  death  or  sudden 
blight  will  deprivs  him  of  her ;  and  he  con 
sults  with  Phrae.  ion  on  the  best  means  of 


MARIA    13  ROOKS. 


/.I 


saving  her  from  the  perils  of  human  exist 
ence.     One  evening, 

Round  Phraiirion,  nearer  drawn, 
One  beauteous  arm  he  flung :  "  First  to  my  love ! — 

We  '11  see  her  safe ;  then  to  our  task  till  dawn." 
Well  pleased,  Phraerion  answered  that  embrace  ; 

All  balmy  he  with  thousand  breathing  sweets, 
From  thousand  dewy  flowers.  "  But  to  what  place," 

He  said,  "  will  Zophiel  go  ]  who  danger  greets 
As  if  'twere  peace.     The  palace  of  the  gnome, 

Tahathyam,  for  our  purpose  most  were  meet ; 
But  then,  the  wave,  so  cold  and  fierce,  the  gloom, 

The  whirlpools,  rocks,  that  guard  that  deep  retreat ! 
Yet  there  are  fountains  which  no  sunny  ray 

E'er  danced  upon,  and  drops  come  there  at  last, 
Which,  for  whole  ages,  filtering  all  the  way, 

Through  all  the  veins  of  earth,  in  winding  maze 

have  past. 

These  take  from  mortal  beauty  every  stain, 
And  smooth  the  unseemly  lines  of  age  and  pain, 

With  every  wondrous  efficacy  rife ; 
Nay,  once  a  spirit  whispered  of  a  draught, 
Of  which  a  drop,  by  any  mortal  quaffed,        [life. 

Would  save,  for  terms  of  years,  his  feeble,  flickering 
Tahathyam  is  the  son  of  a  fallen  angel,  and 
lives  concealed  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
guarding  in  his  possession  a  vase  of  the  elixir 
of  life,  bequeathed  to  him  by  a  father  whom 
he  is  not  permitted  to  see.  The  visit  of  Zo 
phiel  and  Phraerion  to  this  beautiful  but  un 
happy  creature  will  remind  the  reader  of  the 
splendid  creations  of  Dante  : 
The  soft  flower  spirit  shuddered,  looked  on  high, 

And  from  his  bolder  brother  would  have  fled ; 
But  then  the  anger  kindling  in  that  eye 

He  could  not  bear.     So  to  fair  Egla's  bed    [dread, 

Followed  and  looked  ;  then  shuddering  all  with 

To  wondrous  realms,  unknown  to  men,  he  led ; 
Continuing  long  in  sunset  course  his  flight, 

Until  for  flowery  Sicily  he  bent ; 
Then,  where  Italia  smiled  upon  the  night,     [scent. 

Between  their  nearest  shores  chose  midway  his  de- 
The  sea  was  calm,  and  the  reflected  moon 

Still  trembled  on  its  surface ;  not  a  breath 
Curled  the  broad  mirror :  night  had  passed  her  noon ; 

How  soft  the  air  !  how  cold  the  depths  beneath  ! 
The  spirits  hover  o'er  that  surface  smooth, 

Zophiel's  white  arm  around  PhraSrion's  twined, 
In  fond  caress,  his  tender  cares  to  soothe,      [hind. 

While  either's  nearer  wing  the  other's  crossed  be- 
Well  pleased,  Phraerion  half  forgot  his  dread, 

And  first,  with  foot  as  white  as  lotus  leaf, 
The  sleepy  surface  of  the  waves  essayed  ;     [grief. 

But  then  his  smile  of  love  gave  place  to  drops  of 
How  could  he  for  that  fluid,  dense  and  chill, 

Change  the  sweet  floods  of  air  they  floated  on  1 
E'en  at  the  touch  his  shrinking  fibres  thrill ; 

But  ardent  Zophicl,  panting,  hurries  on, 
And  (catching  his  mild  brother's  tears,  with  lip 

That  whispered  courage  'twixt  each  glowing  kiss) 

Persuades  to  plunge  :  limbs,  wings,  and  locks,  they 
dip; 

Whate'er  the  other's  pains,  the  lover  felt  but  bliss. 


Quicklv  he  draws  Phraerion  on,  his  toil 

Even  lighter  than  he  hoped  ;  some  power  benign 
Seems  to  restrain  the  surges,  while  they  boil 

Mid  crags  and  caverns,  as  of  his  design 
Respectful.     That  black,  bitter  element, 

As  if  obedient  to  his  wish,  gave  way  ; 
So,  comforting  Phraerion,  on  he  went, 

And  a  high,  craggy  arch  they  reach  at  dawn  of  day, 
Upon  the  upper  world ;  and  forced  them  through 

That  arch,  the  thick,  cold  floods,  with  such  a  roar, 
That  the  bold  sprite  receded,  and  would  view 

The  cave  before  he  ventured  to  explore. 
Then,  fearful  lest  his  frighted  guide  might  part 

And  not  be  missed  amid  such  strife  and  din, 
He  strained  him  closer  to  his  burning  heart, 

And,  trusting  to  his  strength,  rushed  fiercely  in. 
On,  on,  for  many  a  weary  mile  they  fare ; 

Till  thinner  grew  the  floods,  long  dark  and  dense, 
From  nearness  to  earth's  core ;  and  now,  a  glare 

Of  grateful  light  relieved  their  piercing  sense ; 
As  when,  above,  the  sun  his  genial  streams 

Of  warmth  and  light  darts  mingling  with  the  waves 
Whole  fathoms  down ;  while,  amorous  of  his  beams, 

Each  scaly,  monstrous  thing  leaps  from  its  slimy 
And  now,  Phraerion,  with  a  tender  cry,      [caves. 

Far  sweeter  than  the  landlord's  note,  afar 
Heard  through  the  azure  arches  of  the  sky, 

By  the  long  baffled,  storm  worn  mariner : 
"  Hold,  Zophiol !  rest  thec  now — our  task  is  done, 

Tahathyam's  realms  alone  can  give  this  light ! 
Oh  !  though  'tis  not  the  life  awakening  sun, 

How  sweet  to  see  it  break  upon  such  fearful  night!" 
Clear  grew  the  wave,  and  thin  ;  a  substance  white 

The  wide  expanding  cavern  floors  and  flanks ; 
Could  one  have  looked  from  high,  how  fair  the  sight ! 

Like  these,  the  dolphin,  on  Bahaman  banks, 
Cleaves  the  warm  fluid,  in  his  rainbow  tints, 

While  even  his  shadow  on  the  sands  below 
Is  seen,  as  through  the  wave  he  glides  and  glints, 

Where  lies  the  polished  shell,  and  branching  corals 
No  massive  gate  impedes ;  the  wave  in  vain   [grow. 

Might  strive  against  the  air  to  break  or  fall ; 
And,  at  the  portal  of  that  strange  domain, 

A  clear,  bright  curtain  seemed,  or  crystal  wall. 
The  spirits  pass  its  bounds,  but  would  not  far 

Tread  its  slant  pavement,  like  unbidden  guest ; 
The  while,  on  either  side,  a  bower  of  spar 

Gave  invitation  for  a  moment's  rest. 
And,  deep  in  either  bower,  a  little  throne 

Looked  so  fantastic,  it  were  hard  to  know 
If  busy  Nature  fashioned  it  alone, 

Or  found  some  curious  artist  bore  below. 
Soon  spoke  Phra-rion :  "  Come,  Tahathyam,  come. 

Thou  knowest  me  well— I  saw  theo  once,  to  love, 
And  bring  a  guest  to  view  thy  sparkling  dome 

Who  comes  full  fraught  with  tidings  from  above." 
Those  gentle  tones,  nngolicully  rlenr, 

Passed  from  his  lips,  in  m;v/.y  depths  retreating, 
(As  if  that  bower  had  been  the  cavern's  ear.) 

Full  many  a  stadia  far;  and  kept  repeating, 
As  through  the  perforated  rock  they  pass, 

Echo  to  echo  guiding  them ;  their  tone 
(As  just  from  the  sweet  spirit's  lip)  at  la»t 

Tahathyam  heard  :  where  on  a  glittering  throna 
he  solitary  sat. 


i'tj 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


Sending  through  the  rock  an  answering 
strain,  to  give  the  spirits  welcome,  the  gnome 
prepares  to  meet  them  at  his  palace  door : 

He  sat  upon  a  car  (and  the  large  pearl, 

Once  cradled  in  it,  glimmered  now  without), 
Bound  midway  on  two  serpents'  backs,  that  curl 

In  silent  swiftness  as  he  glides  about. 
A  shell,  'twas  first  in  liquid  amber  wet, 

Thru,  ere  the  fragrant  cement  hardened  round, 
All  o'er  with  large  and  precious  stones  'twas  set 

By  skilful  Tsavaven,  or  made  or  found. 
The  reins  seemed  pliant  crystal,  (but  their  strength 

Had  matched  his  earthly  mother's  silken  band), 
And.  flecked  with  rubies,  flowed  in  ample  length, 

Like  sparkles  o'er  Tahathyam's  beauteous  hand. 
The  reptiles,  in  their  fearful  beauty,  drew. 

As  if  from  love,  like  steeds  of  Araby; 
Like  blood  of  lady's  lip  their  scarlet  hue  ;      [to  see. 

Their  scales  so  bright  and  sleek, 'twas  pleasure  but 
With  open  mouths,  as  proud  to  show  the  bit,    [eye 

They  raise  their  heads  and  arch  their  necks  (with 
As  bright  as  if  with  meteor  fire  'twere  lit)  ; 

And  dart  their  barbed  tongues  'twixt  fangs  of  ivory. 
These,  when  the  quick  advancing  sprites  they  saw 

Furi  their  swift  wings,  and  tread  with  angel  grace 
The  smooth,  fair  pavement,  check"-1  their  speed  in 

And  glided  far  aside  as  if  to  give  thiMi  space,  [awe. 

The  errand  of  the  angels  is  made  known 
to  the  sovereign  of  this  interior  and  resplen 
dent  world,  and  upon  conditions  the  precious 
elixir  is  promised ;  but  first  Zophiel  and  Phra- 
cjrion  are  ushered  through  sparry  portals  to  a 
banquet : 

High  towered  the  palace,  and  its  massive  pile, 

Made  dubious  if  of  nature  or  of  art, 
So  wild  and  so  uncouth ;  yet,  all  the  while, 

Shaped  to  strange  grace  in  every  varying  part. 
And  proves  adorned  it,  green  in  hue,  and  bright, 

As  icicles  about  a  laurel  tree ; 
And  danced  about  their  twigs  a  wondrous  light; 

Whence  came  that  light  so  far  beneath  the  sea  1 
Zophiel  looked  up  to  know,  and  to  his  view 

Tlu«  van  t  scarce  seemed  less  vast  than  that  of  day ; 
No  rocky  roof  was  seen  ;  a  tender  blue 

Appeared,  as  of  the  sky,  and  clouds  about  it  play  : 
And,  in  the  midst,  an  orb  looked  as  'twere  meant 

To  shame  the  sun,  it  mimicked  him  so  well. 
But  ah!   no  quickening,  grateful  warmth  it  sent; 

Cold  as  the  rock  beneath,  the  paly  radiance  fell. 
Within,  from  thousand  lamps,  the  lustre  strays, 

Reflected  back  from  gems  about  the  wall ; 
And  from  twelve  dolphin  shapes  a  fountain  plays, 

Just  in  the  centre  of  a  spacious  hall ; 
But  whether  in  the  sunbeam  formed  to  sport, 

Tin-so  shapes  once  lived  in  suppleness  and  pride, 
And  then,  to  decorate  this  wondrous  court, 

Were  s'o'en  from  the  waves  and  petrified ; 
Or,  moulded  by  some  imitative  gnome, 

And  sru'ed  aU  o'er  with  gems,  they  were  but  stone, 
Ciistinir  their  showers  and  rainbows  neath  the  dome,' 

To  nun.  or  auge.i's  eye  might  not  be  known. 
\o  snowy  fleece  in  these  sad  realms  was  found, 


Nor  si  ken  ball  bv  maiden  loved  so  well ; 
But,  ranged  in  lightest  garniture  around, 

In  seemly  fo'ds,  a  shining  tapestry  fell. 
And  fibres  of  asbestos,  bleached  in  fire, 

And  all  with  pearls  and  sparkling  gems  o'erflecked, 
Of  that  strange  court  composed  the  rich  attire, 

And  such  the  cold,  fair  form  of  sad  Tahathyam 
decked. 

Gified  with  every  pleasing  endowment,  in 
possession  of  an  elixir  of  which  a  drop  per 
petuates  life  and  youth,  surrounded  by  friends 
of  his  own  choice,  who  are  all  axious  to  please 
and  amuse  him,  the  gnome  feels  himself  in 
ferior  in  happiness  to  the  lowest  of  mortals. 
His  sphere  is  confined,  his  high  powers  use 
less,  for  he  is  without  the  "  last,  best  gift  of 
God  to  man,"  and  there  is  no  object  on  which 
he  can  exercise  his  benevolence.  The  feast 
is  described  with  the  terse  beauty  which 
marks  all  the  canto,  and  at  its  close  — 
The  banquet  cups,  of  many  a  hue  and  shape, 

Bossed  o'er  with  gems,  were  beautiful  to  view ; 
But,  for  the  madness  of  the  vaunted  grape, 

Their  only  draught  was  a  pure,  limpid  dew. 
The  spirits  while  they  sat  in  social  guise, 

Pledging  each  goblet  with  an  answering  kiss, 
Marked  many  a  gnome  conceal  his  bursting  sighs  ; 

And  thought  death  happier  than  a  life  like  this. 
But  they  had  music :  at  one  ample  side 

Of  the  vast  area  of  that  sparkling  hall, 
Fringed  round  with  gems,  that  all  the  rest  outvied, 

In  form  of  canopy,  was  seen  to  fall 
The  stony  tapestry,  over  what,  at  first, 

An  altar  to  some  deity  appeared ; 
But  it  had  cost  full  many  a  year  to  adjust 

The  limpid  crystal  tubes  that  neath  upreared 
Their  different  lucid  'lengths ;  and  so  complete 

Their  wrondrous  'rangement,  that  a  tuneful  gnome 
Drew  from  them  sounds  more   varied,  clear,  and 
sweet, 

Than  ever  yet  had  rung  in  any  earthly  dome. 
Loud,  shrilly,  liquid,  soft ;  at  that  quick  touch 

Such  modulation  wooed  his  an<;el  ears, 
That  Zophiel  wondered,  started  from  his  couch, 

And  thought  upon  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

But  Zophiel  lingers  with  ill  dissembled 
impatience,  and  Tahathyam  leads  the  way 
to  where  the  elixir  of  life  is  to  be  surren 
dered: 

Soon  through  the  rock  they  wind ;  the  draught  di 
vine 

Was  hidden  by  a  -veil  the  king  alone  might  lift. 
Cephroniel's  son,  with  half  averted  face 

And  fe' taring  band,  that  curtain  drew,  and  showed, 
Of  solid  diamond  formed,  a  lucid  vase; 

And  warm  within  the  pure  elixir  glowed  ; 
Bright  red,  like  flame,  and  blood  (could  they  so  meet) 

Ascending,  sparkling,  dancing,  whirling,  ever 
In  quick,  perpetual  movement ;  and  of  heat 
So  hiirh,  the  rock  was  warm  beneath  their  feet, 

(Yet  heat  in  its  intenseness  hurtful  never,) 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


77 


Even  to  the  entrance  of  the  long  arcade 

Which  led  to  that  deep  shrine,  in  the  rock's  hreast 
As  far  as  if  the  ha  t-ange!  were  afraid 

To  know  the  secret  he  himse  f  possessed. 
Tahathyam  fi  led  a  s  ip  of  spar,  with  dread, 

As  if  stood  hy  and  frowned  some  power  divine ; 
Then  trembling,  as  he  turned  to  Zophiel,  said, 

"  But  for  one  service  sha't  thou  call  it  thine ; 
Bring  me  a  wife ;  as  I  have  named  the  way 

(I  will  not  risk  destruction  save  for  love  !) — 
Fair-haired  and  beauteous,  like  my  mother;  say — 

P  jght  me  this  pact ;  so  sha  t  thou  bear  above, 
For  thine  own  purpose,  what  has  here  been  kept 

Since  b'.oomed  the  second  age,  to  angels  dear. 
Bursting  from  earth's  dark  womb,  the  fierce  wave 
swept 

Off  every  form  that  lived  and  loved,  while  here, 
Deep  hidden  here,  I  still  lived  on  and  wept." 

Great  pains  have  evidently  been  taken  to 
have  everything  throughout  the  work  in 
keeping.  Most  of  the  names  have  been 
selected  for  their  particular  meaning.  Ta 
hathyam  and  his  retinue  appear  to  have  been 
settled  in  their  submarine  dominion  before 
the  great  deluge  that  changed  the  face  of  the 
earth,  as  is  intimated  in  the-lines  last  quoted  ; 
and  as  the  accounts  of  that  judgment  and  of 
the  visits  and  communications  of  angels  con 
nected  with  it  are  chiefly  in  Hebrew,  they 
have  names  from  that  language.  It  would 
have  been  better  perhaps  not  to  have  called 
the  persons  of  the  third  canto  gnomes,  as  at 
this  word  one  is  reminded  of  all  the  varieties 
of  the  Rosicrucian  system,  of  which  Pope  has 
so  well  availed  himself  in  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  which  sprightly  production  has  been 
said  to  be  derived,  though  remotely,  from 
Jewish  legends  of  fallen  angels.  Tahathyam 
can  be  called  gnome  only  on  account  of  the 
retreat  to  which  his  erring  father  has  con 
signed  him. 

The  spirits  leave  the  cavern,  and  Zophiel 
exults  a  moment,  as  if  restored  to  perfect 
happiness.  But  there  is  no  way  of  bearing 
his  prize  to  the  earth  except  through  the 
moKt  dangerous  depths  of  the  sea. 

Zophiel,  with  toil  severe, 
But  bliss  in  view,  through  the  thrice  murky  night, 

Sped  swiftly  on.     A  treasure  now  more  dear 
He  had  to  guard,  than  boldest  hope  had  dared 

To  breathe  for  years ;  but  rougher  grew  the  way  ; 
And  soft  Phraerion,  shrinking  back  and  scared  [day, 

^t  every  whirling  depth,  wept  for  his  flowers  and 
Shivered,  and  pained,  and  shrieking,  as  the  waves 

Wildly  impel  them  'gainst  the  jutting  rocks; 
Not  all  the  care  and  strength  of  Zophiel  saves 

His  tender  guide  from  half  the  wi'dering  shocks 
He  bore.  The  calm,  which  favored  their  descent, 

And  bade  them  look  upon  their  task  as  o'er, 


W;is  past;  and  now  the  inmost  earth  seemed  rent 

With  such  fierce  storms  as  never  raged  before. 
Of  a  long  mortal  life  had  the  whole  pain 

Essenced  in  one  consummate  pang,  been  borne, 
Known,  and  survived,  it  still  would  be  in  vain 

To  try  to  paint  the  pains  felt  by  these  sprites  forli  rn 
The  precious  drop  closed  in  its  hollow  spar, 

Between  his  lips  Zophiel  in  triumph  bore. 
Now,  earth  and  sea  seem  shaken  !     Dashed  afar 

He  feels  it  part; — 'tis  dropped :  the  waters  roar, 
He  sees  it  in  a  sable  vortex  whirling, 

Formed  by  a  cavern  vast,  that  neath  the  sea 
Sucks  the  fierce  torrent  in. 

The  furious  storm  has  been  raised  by  the 
power  of  his  betrayer  and  persecutor,  and  in 
gloomy  desperation  Zophiel  rises  with  the 
frail  Phraerion  to  the  upper  air: 

Black  clouds,  in  mass  deform, 
Were  frowning  ;  yet  a  moment's  ca'm  was  there, 

As  it  had  stopped  to  breathe  a  while  the  storm. 
Their  white  feet  press  the  desert  sod ;  they  shook 

From  their  bright  locks  the  briny  drops ;  nor  stayed 
Zophiil  on  ills,  present  or  past,  to  look. 

But  his  flight  toward  Medea  is  stayed  by  a 

renewal  of  the  tempest : 

Loud  and  more  loud  the  blast ;  in  mingled  gyre 

Flew  lesves  and  stones,  and  with  a  deafening  crash 
Fell  the  uprooted  trees ;  heaven  seemed  on  fire — 

Not,  as  'tis  wont,  with  intermitting  flash, 
But,  like  an  ocean  all  of  liquid  flame, 

The  who'e  br.oad  arch  gave  one  continuous  glare, 
While  through  the  red  light  from  their  prowling 
came 

The  frighted  beasts,  and  ran,  but  could  not  find  a 

lair. 

At  length  comes  a  shock,  as  if  the  earth 
crashed  against  some  other  planet,  and  they 
are  thrown  amazed  and  prostrate  upon  the 

heath.     Zophiel  — 

in  a  mood 

Too  fierce  for  fear,  uprose ;  yet  ere  for  flight 
Served  his  torn  wings,  a  form  before  him  stood 

In  gloomy  majesty.     Like  starless  night, 
A  sable  mantle  fell  in  cloudy  fold 

From  its  stupendous  breast ;  and  as  it  trod, 
The  pale  and  lurid  light  at  distance  rolled 

Before  its  princely  feet,  receding  on  the  sod. 

The  interview  between  the  bland  spirit  and 
the  prime  cause  of  his  guilt  is  full  of  the  en 
ergy  of  passion,  and  the  rhetoric  of  the  con 
versation  has  a  masculine  beauty  of  which 
Mrs.  Brooks  alone  of  all  the  poets  of  her  sex 
was  capable. 

Zophiel  returns  to  Medea  and  the  drama 
draws  to  a  close,  which  is  painted  with  con 
jummate  art.  Egla  wanders 'alone  at  t\vi 
lighf  in  th°  shadowy  vistas  of  a  grove,  won 
dering  and  sighing  at  the  continued  ansence 
of  the  enamored  angel,  who  approaches  '.in 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


seen  while  she  sings  a  strain  that  he  had 
taught  her. 

His  wings  were  folded  o'er  his  eyes ;  severe 

As  was  the  pain  he  'd  borne  from  wave  arid  wind, 
The  dubious  warning  of  that  being  drear, 

Who  met  him  in  the  lightning,  to  his  mind 
Was  torture  worse ;  a  dark  presentiment 

Came  o'er  his  soul  with  paralyzing  chill, 
As  when  Fate  vaguely  whispers  her  intent 

To  poison  mortal  joy  with  sense  of  coming  ill. 
He  searched  about  the  grove  with  all  the  care 

Of  tremb.ing  jealousy,  as  if  to  trace 
By  track  or  wounded  flower  some  rival  there ; 

And  scarcely  dared  to  look  upon  the  face 
Of  her  he  loved,  lest  it  some  tale  might  tell 

To  make  the  only  hope  that  soothed  him  vain  : 
He  hears  her  notes  in  numbers  die  and  swell, 

But  a  most  fears  to  listen  to  the  strain 
Himse  f  had  taught  her,  lest  some  hated  name 

Had  been  with  that  dear  gentle  air  enwreathed, 
While  he  was  far ;  she  sighed — he  nearer  came — 

Oh,  transport !  Zophiel  was  the  name  she  breathed. 
He  saw  her  —  but 

Paused,  ere  he  would  advance,  for  very  bliss. 
The  joy  of  a  who'.e  mortal  life  he  felt 

In  that  one  moment.  Now,  too  long  unseen, 
He  fain  had  shown  his  beauteous  form,  and  knelt, 

But  while  he  still  delayed,  a  mortal  rush'd  between. 

This  scene  is  in  the  sixth  canto.  In  the 
fifth,  which  is  occupied  almost  entirely  by 
mortals,  and  bears  a  closer  relation  than  the 
others  to  the  chief  works  in  narrative  and 
dramatic  poetry,  are  related  the  adventures 
of  Zameia,  which,  with  the  story  of  her  death, 
following  the  last  extract,  would  make  a  fine 
tragedy.  Her  misfortunes  are  simply  told  by 
an  aged  attendant  who  had  fled  with  her  in 
pursuit  of  Meles,  whom  she  had  seen  and 
loved  in  Babylon.  At  the  feast  of  Venus 
Mylitta, 

Full  in  the  midst,  and  taller  than  the  rest, 

Zameia  stood  distinct,  and  not  a  sigh 
Disturbed  the  gem  that  sparkled  on  her  breast; 

Her  oval  cheek  was  heightened  to  a  dye 
Th.it  shamed  the  mellow  vermeil  of  the  wreath 

Which  in  her  jetty  locks  became  her  well, 
And  mingled  fragrance  with  her  sweeter  breath, 

The  uhi'e  her  haughty  lips  more  beautifully  swell 
With  consciousness  of  every  charm's  excess ; 

^While  with  becoming  scorn  she  turned  her  face 
From  every  eye  that  darted  its  caress, 

As  if  some  god  a'.one  might  hope  for  her  embrace. 
Ai^ain   she  is  discovered,   sleeping,  by  the 
rvky  margin  of  a  river: 
Pa  Mid  and  worn,  but  beautiful  and  young,  [trace; 

Though  marked  her  charms  by  wildest  passion's 
Her  long  round  arms,  over  a  fragment  flung, 
From  pillow  all  too  rude  protect  a  face 
Whose  dark  and  high  arched  brows  gave  to  the 
thought 


To  deem  what  radiance  once  they  towered  above 
But  all  its  proudly  beauteous  outline  taught 
That  anger  there  had  shared  the  throne  of  love. 

It  was  Zameia  that  rushed  between  Zophiel 
and  Egla,  and  that  now  with  quivering  lip, 
disordered  hair,  and  eye  gleaming  with 
phrensy,  seized  her  arm,  reproached  her  with 
the  murder  of  Meles,  and  attempted  to  kill 
her.  But  as  her  dagger  touches  the  white 
robe  of  the  maiden,  her  arm  is  arrested  by 
some  unseen  power,  and  she  falls  dead  at 
Egla's  feet.  Reproached  by  her  own  hand 
maid  and  by  the  aged  attendant  of  the  prin 
cess,  Egla  feels  all  the  horrors  of  despair, 
and,  beset  with  evil  influences,  she  seeks  to 
end  her  own  life,  but  is  prevented  by  the 
timely  appearance  of  Raphael,  in  the  char 
acter  of  a  traveller's  guide,  leading  Helon,  a 
young  man  of  her  own  nation  and  kindred 
who  has  been  living  unknown  at  Babylon, 
protected  by  the  same  angel,  and  destined  to 
be  her  husband  ;  and  to  the  mere  idea  of 
whose  existence,  imparted  to  her  in  a  mys 
terious  and  vague  manner  by  Raphael,  she 
has  remained  faithful  from  her  childhood. 

Zophiel,  who  by  the  power  of  Lucifer  has 
been  detained  struggling  in  the  grove,  is  suf 
fered  once  more  to  enter  the  presence  of  the 
object  of  his  affection.  He  sees  her  support 
ed  in  the  arms  of  Helon,  whom  he  makes  one 
futile  effort  to  destroy,  and  then  is  banished 
for  ever.  The  emissaries  of  his  immortal  en 
emy  pursue  the  baffled  seraph  to  his  place 
of  exile,  and  by  their  derision  endeavor  to 
augment  his  misery : 

And  when  they  fled,  he  hid  him  in  a  cave  [there, 
Strewn  with  the  bones  of  some  sad  wretch  who 

Apart  from  men,  had  sought  a  desert  grave, 
And  yielded  to  the  demon  of  despair. 

There  beauteous  Zophiel,  shrinking  from  the  day, 
Envying  the  wretch  that  so  his  life  had  ended, 

Wailed  his  eternity ; 

but,  at  last,  is  visited  by  Raphael,  who  gives 
him  hopes  of  restoration  to  his  original  rank 
in  heaven. 

The  concluding  canto  is  entitled  The  Bridal 
of  Helon,  and  in  the  following  lines  it  con 
tains  much  of  the  author's  philosophy  of  life: 
The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed  a  soul 

Without  its  owrn  pecu'iar  mate,  to  meet 
Its  wandering  half,  when  ripe  to  crown  the  whole 

Brnhtplan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly,  most  complete ! 
But  thousand  evil  things  there  are  that  hate 

To  look  on  happiness ;  these  hurt,  impede,  [fate, 
And,  leagued  with  time,  space,  circumstance,  and 

Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to  pine,  and  pant, 
and  bleed. 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


And  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying, 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam, 
Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 

Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream — 
So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring, 

Love's  pure,  congenial  spring  unfound,  unquafFed, 
Suffers,  recoils — then  thirsty  and  despairing 

Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest 
draught. 

On  consulting  Zophiel,  it  will  readily  be 
seen  that  the  passages  here  extracted  have 
not.  been  chosen  for  their  superior  poetical 
merit.  It  has  simply  been  attempted  by  quo 
tations  and  a  running  commentary  to  convey 
a  just  impression  of  the  scope  and  charactei 
of  the  work.  There  is  not  perhaps  in  the 
English  language  a  poem  containing  a  greater 
variety  of  thought,  description,  and  incident, 
and  though  the  author  did  not  possess  in  an 
eminent  degree  the  constructive  faculty,  there 
are  few  narratives  that  are  conducted  with 
more  regard  to  unities,  or  with  more  sim 
plicity  and  perspicuity. 

Though  characterized  by  force  and  even 
freedom  of  expression,  it  does  not  contain  an 
impure  or  irreligious  sentiment.  Every  page 
is  full  of  passion,  but  passion  subdued  and 
chas;ened  by  refinement  and  delicacy.  Sev 
eral  of  the  characters  are  original  and  splen 
did  creations.  Zophiel  seems  to  us  the  finest 
fallen  angel  that  has  come  from  the  hand  of 
a  poet.  Milton's  outcasts  from  heaven  are 
u.terly  depraved  and  abraded  of  their  glory; 
bui  Zuphiel  has  traces  of  his  original  virtue 
and  beauty,  and  a  lingering  hope  of  restora 
tion  to  the  presence  of  the  Divinity.  De 
ceived  by  the  specious  fallacies  of  an  immor 
tal  like  himself,  and  his  superior  in  rank,  he 
encounters  the  blackest  perfidy  in  him  for 
whom  so  much  had  been  forfeited,  and  the 
blight  of  every  prospect  that  had  lured  his 
fancy  or  ambition.  Egla,  though  one  of  the 
most  important  characters  in  the  poem,  is 
much  less  interesting.  She  is  represented  as 
heroically  cc  nsistent,  except  when  given  over 
for  a  moment  to  the  malice  of  infernal  emis 
saries.  In  her  immediate  reception  of  Helon 
as  a  husband,  she  is  constant  to  a  long  cher 
ished  idea,  and  fulfils  the  design  of  her  guard 
ian  spirit,  or  it  would  excite  some  wonder 
that  Zophiel  was  worsted  in  such  competi 
tion.  It  will  be  perceived  upon  a  careful 
examination  that  the  work  is  in  admirable 
keeping,  and  that  the  entire  conduct  of  its 
several  persons  bears  a  just  relation  to  their 
characters  and  positions. 


Mrs.  Brooks  returned  to  the  United  States, 
and  her  son  being  now  a  student  in  the  mil 
itary  academy,  she  took  up  her  residence  in 
the  vicinity  of  West  Point,  where,  with  oc 
casional  intermissions  in  which  she  visited 
her  plantation  in  Cuba  or  travelled  in  the 
United  States,  she  remained  until  1839.  Her 
marked  individuality,  the  variety,  beauty,  and 
occasional  splendor  of  her  conversation,  made 
her  house  a  favorite  resort  of  the  officers  of 
the  academy,  and  of  the  most  accomplished 
persons  who  frequented  that  romantic  neigh 
borhood,  by  many  of  whom  she  will  long  be 
remembered  with  mingled  affection  and  ad 
miration. 

In  1834  she  caused  to  be  published  in  Bos 
ton  an  edition  of  Zophiel,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Polish  exiles  who  were  thronging  to  this 
country  after  their  then  recent  struggle  for 
freedom.  There  were  at  that  time  too  few 
readers  among  us  of  sufficiently  cultivated 
and  independent  taste  to  appreciate  a  work 
of  art  which  time  or  accident  had  not  com 
mended  to  the  popular  applause,  and  Zophiel 
scarcely  anywhere  excited  any  interest  or 
attracted  any  attention.  At  the  end  of  a 
month  but  about  twenty  copies  had  been  sold, 
and,  in  a  moment  of  disappointment,  Mrs. 
Brooks  caused  the  remainder  of  the  impres 
sion  to  be  withdrawn  from  the  market.  The 
poem  has  therefore  been  little  read  in  this 
country,  and  even  the  title  of  it  would  have 
remained  unknown  to  the  common  reader  of 
elegant  literature  but  for  occasional  allusions 
to  it  by  Southey  and  other  foreign  critics.* 

In  the  summer  of  1843,  while  Mrs.  Brooks 
was  residing  at  Fort  Columbus,  in  the  bay  of 
New  York  —  a  military  post  at  which  her 
son,  Captain  Horace  Brooks,  was  stationed 
several  years  —  she  had  printed  for  private 
circulation  the  remarkable  little  work  to 
which  allusion  has  already  been  made,  enti 
tled  Idomen,  or  The  Vale  of  the  Yumuri.  It 
is  in  the  style  of  a  romance,  but  contains  lit 
tle  that  is  fictitious  except  the  names  of  the 
characters.  The  account  which  Idomen  gives 
of  her  own  history  is  literally  true,  except  in 


*  Mnria  del  Occidente  is  styled  in  "The  Doc-tor     &c, 
"the  most  impassioned  and  most  imnginntive  ol   (01  ppel 
e««es  "  And  without  taking  into  account  9u*fta*i  ardenti 
Scattered  here  and  thrre  throughout  her  smirnh.r  poein. 
AerSundoubtedly  .round  tor  the.tirst  Han,,  am  .  -th 
the  more  accurate  substitution  of  "fanciful    lor    imar 
Sve"  for  the  whole  of  the  eulogy.     It  is  altogether  an  ex 
traordinary  performance.— London  Quarterly  lieview. 

Which  [Zophiel]  he  [Southey]  says  ;s  by  some  Yank*- 
woman,  as  if  there  ever  had  been  a  womau  capable  o. 
anything  so  great !— Charles  Lamb 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


ri-la  ion  to  an  excursion  to  Niagara,  which 
occurred  in  a  different  period  of  the  author's 
life.  It  is  impossible  to  read  these  interest 
ing  "confessions"  without  feeling  a  profound 
interest  in  the  character  which  they  illus 
trate  ;  a  character  of  singular  strength,  dig- 
niiy,  and  delicacy,  subjected  to  the  severest 
tests,  and  exposed  to  the  most  curious  and 
easy  analyses.  "  To  see  the  inmost  soul  of 
one  who  bore  all  the  impulse  and  torture  of 
self-murder  without  perishing,  is  what  can 
seldom  be  done :  very  few  have  memories 
strong  enough  to  retain  a  distinct  impression 
of  past  suffering,  and  few,  though  possessed 
of  such  memories,  have  the  power  of  so  de 
scribing  their  sensations  as  to  make  them  ap 
parent  to  another."  Idomen  will  possess  an 
interest  and  value  as  a  psychological  study, 
independent  of  that  which  belongs  to  it  as  a 
record  of  the  experience  of  so  eminent  a  poet. 

Mrs.  Brooks  was  anxious  to  have  published 
an  edition  of  all  her  writings,  including  Ido 
men,  before  leaving  New  York,  and  she  au 
thorized  me  to  offer  gratuitously  her  copy 
rights  to  an  eminent  publishing  house  for  that 
purpose.  In  the  existing  condition  of  the 
copyright  laws,  which  should  have  been  en 
titled  acts  for  the  discouragement  of  a  native 
literature,  she  was  not  surprised  that  the  of 
fer  was  declined,  though  indignant  that  the 
reason  assigned  should  have  been  that  they 
were  "of  too  elevated  a  character  to  sell." 
Writing  to  me  soon  afterward  she  observed: 
"I  do  not  think  anything  from  my  humble 
imagination  can  be  'too  elevated,'  or  ele 
vated  enough,  for  the  public  as  it  really  is 

in   these  North  American   states In  the 

words  of  poor  Spurzheim,  (uttered  to  me  a 
short  time  before  his  death,  in  Boston,)  I  sol 
ace  myself  by  saying,  'Stupidity  !  stupidity! 
the  knott-li'dge  of  that  alone  has  saved  me 
from  misanthropy.'  " 

In  December,  1843,  Mrs.  Brooks  sailed  the 
last  time  from  her  native  country  for  the 
island  of  Cuba.  There,  on  her  coffee  estate, 
Hcrmita,  she  renewed  for  a  while  her  litera 
ry  labors.  The  small  stone  building,  smooth 
ly  plastered,  with  a  flight  of  steps  leading  to 
its  entrance,  in  which  she  wrote  some  of  the 
cantos  of  Zophiel,  is  described  by  a  recent 
traveller*  as  surrounded  by  alleys  of  "palms, 
cocoas,  and  oranges,  interspersed  with  the 
tamarind,  the  pomegranate,  the  mangoe,  and 

*  The  author  of  "  Note*  on  Cuba."— Boston,  1844. 


the  rose-apple,  with  a  back  ground  of  coffee 
and  plantains  covering  every  portion  of  the 
soil  with  their  luxuriant  verdure.  I  have 
often  passed  it,"  he  observes,  "in  the  still 
night,  when  the  moon  was  shining  brightly, 
and  the  leaves  of  the  cocoa  and  palm  threw 
fringe-like  shadows  on  the  walls  and  the  floor, 
and  the  elfin  lamps  of  the  cocullos  swept 
through  the  windows  and  door,  casting  their 
lurid,  mysterious  light  on  every  object,  while 
the  air  was  laden  with  mingled  perfume  from 
the  coffee  and  orange,  and  the  tube-rose  and 
night-blooming  ceres,  and  have  thought  that 
no  fitter  birthplace  could  be  found  for  the 
images  she  has  created." 

Her  habits  of  composition  were  peculiar. 
With  an  almost  unconquerable  aversion  to 
the  use  of  tjie  pen,  especially  in  her  later 
years,  it  was  her  custom  to  finish  her  shorter 
pieces,  and  entire  cantos  of  longer  poems,  be 
fore  committing  a  word  of  them  to  paper. 
She  had  long  meditated,  and  had  partly  com 
posed,  an  epic  under  the  title  of  Beatriz,  the 
Beloved  of  Columbus,  and  when  transmit 
ting  to  me  the  manuscript  of  The  Departed, 
in  August,  1844,  she  remarked  :  "  When  I 
have  written  out  my  Vistas  del  Infierno  and 
one  other  short  poem,  I  hope  to  begin  the 
penning  of  the  epic  I  have  so  often  spoken 
to  you  of:  but  when  or  whether  it  will  ever 
be  finished,  Heaven  alone  can  tell."  I  have 
not  learned  whether  this  poem  was  written, 
but  when  I  heard  her  repeat  passages  of  it, 
I  thought  it  would  be  a  nobler  work  than 
Zophiel. 

But  little  will  be  said  here  of  the  minor  po 
ems  of  Mrs.  Brooks.  They  evince  the  same 
power  and  passion  —  the  imagination,  fancy, 
command  of  poetical  language,  and  intense 
feeling,  which  are  so  apparent  in  her  chief 
work.  Many  of  them  were  written  under  the 
pressure  of  extraordinary  circumstances,  and 
these  breathe  of  the  fresh  and  deep  emotions 
by  which  they  were  occasioned.  Others  are 
in  a  more  eminent  degree  works  of  art,  com 
posed  for  the  mere  love  of  giving  form  to  the 
lights  and  shadows,  and  vague  creations,  of  a 
mind  teeming  with  beauty.  One  of  her  latest 
productions  is  the  Ode  to  the  Departed.  She 
wrote  to  me  on  the  seventeenth  of  August, 
1844,  "I  send  you  a  poem  which  may  possi 
bly  please  you,  as  I  remember  your  appro 
val  of  a  hymn  of  mine  not  dissimilar.  On 
the  seventeenth  of  last  April  it  was  con 
ceived  and  partly  executed  in  the  midst  of  a 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


8!' 


dearih  such  as  had  not  for  many  years  been 
known  in  the  island  of  Cuba.  A  late  attempt 
at  insurrection  had  been  followed  by  such 
scenes  and  events  as  could  not  fail  to  call 
forth  thoughts  and  hopes  of  a  future  exist 
ence,  even  if  private  sorrow  had  not  before 
awakened  them."  This  poem,  one  written 
about  the  same  time  under  the  title  of  Con 


Vistas  dd  ////zerno,  another  To  the  Departed, 
one  on  Revisiting  Cuba,  one  to  Painting,  and 
an  Invocation  to  Poetry,  are  all  that  have 
appeared  in  this  stanza  which  was  invented 
by  Mrs.  Brooks,  and  was  admirably  suited  to 
the  tone  of  her  la'er  compositions. 

Mrs.  Brooks  died  at  Matanzas,  in  Cuba, 
on  the  eleventh  of  November,  1845. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  ZOPHIEL. 

MOHXING. 

How  beauteous  art  thou,  0  thou  morning  sun ! — 

The  old  man,  feebly  tottering  forth,  admires 
As  much  thv  beauty,  now  life's  dream  is  done, 

As  when  he  moved  exulting  in  his  fires. 
The  infant  strains  his  little  arms  to  catch 

The  rays  that  glance  about  bis  silken  hair; 
And  L  uxury  hangs  her  amber  lamps,  to  match   [fair. 

Thv  face,  when  turned  away  from  bower  and  palace 
Sweet  to  the  lip  the  draught,  the  blushing  fruit ; 

Music  and  perfumes  mingle  with  the  soul ; 
How  thrills  the  kiss,  when  feeling's  voice  is  mute  ! 

And  light  and  beauty's  tints  enhance  the  whole. 
Yet  each  keen  sense  were  dulness  but.  for  tbee : 

Thy  ray  to  joy,  love,  virtue,  genius,  warms ; 
Thou  never  weariest ;  no  inconstancy 

But  comes  to  pay  new  homage  to  thy  charms. 
How  many  lips  have  sung  thy  praise,  how  long ! 

Yet,  when  his  slumbering  harp  he  feels  tbee  woo, 
The  pleasured  bard  pours  forth  another  song, 

And  finds  in  tbee,  like  love,  a  theme  for  ever  new. 
Thy  dark  eyed  daughters  come  in  beauty  forth, 

In  thy  near  realms ;  and,  like  their  snowwreaths  fair, 
The  bright  haired  youths  and  maidens  of  the  north 

Smile  in  thy  colors  when  thou  art  not  there. 
'Tis  there  tbou  bidst  a  deeper  ardor  glow, 

And  higher,  purer  reveries  completes! ; 
As  drops  that  farthest  from  the  ocean  flow, 

Refining  all  the  way,  from  springs  the  sweetest. 
Haply,  sometimes,  spent  with  the  sleepless  night, 

Some  wretch,  impassioned,  from  sweet  morning  s 

breath, 
Turns  bis  hot  btow,  and  sickens  at  thy  light ; 

But  Nature,  <;\rer  kind,  soon  heals  or  gives  him 
death. 

VIRTUE. 

Virtue !  how  many  as  a  lowly  thing, 

Born  of  weak  folly,  scorn  thee  !  but  thy  name 
Alone  they  know ;  upon  thy  soaring  wing 

They  'd  fear  to  mount ;  nor  could  thy  sacred  flame 
Burn  in  their  baser  hearts :  the  biting  thorn, 

The  flinty  crag,  flowers  hiding,  strew  thy  field ; 
Yet  blest  is  be  whose  daring  bides  the  scorn 

Of  the  frail,  easy  herd,  and  buckles  on  thy  shield. 
Who  says  thy  ways  are  bliss,  trolls  but  a  lay 

To  lure  the  infant :  if  thy  paths,  to  view, 
Were  always  pleasant,  Crime's  worst  sons  would  lay 

Their  da-jgers  at  thy  feet,  and,  from  mere  sloth. 
pu  rsue. 

6 


LOVE. 

What  bliss  for  her  who  lives  her  little  day, 

In  blest  obedience,  like  to  those  divine, 
Who  to  her  loved,  her  earthly  lord,  can  say, 

"  God  is  thy  law,  most  just,  and  thou  art  min3." 
To  every  blast  she  bends  in  beauty  meek  : 

Let  the  storm  beat — his  arms  her  shelter  kind — 
And  feels  no  need  to  blanch  her  rosy  cheek 
*Writh  thoughts  befitting  his  superior  mind. 
Who  only  sorrows  when  she  sees  him  pained, 

Then  knows  to  pluck  away  Pain's  keenest  dart ; 
Or  bid  Love  catch  it  ere  its  goal  be  gained, 

And  steal  its  venom  ere  it  reach  his  heart. 
'T  is  the  soul's  food  :  the  fervid  must  adore. — 

For  this  the  heathen,  unsufficed  with  thought, 
Moulds  him  an  idol  of  the  glittering  ore, 

And  shrines  his  smiling  goddess,  marble  wrought 
What  bliss  for  her,  even  in  this  world  of  wo, 

Oh,  Sire  !  who  makest  yon  orbstrewn  arch  thy 
That  sees  thee  in  thy  noblest  work  below    [throne  ; 

Shine  undefaced,  adored,  and  all  her  own ! 
This  I  had  hoped  ;  but  hope,  too  dear,  too  great, 

Go  to  thy  grave ! — I  feel  thee  blasted,  now. 
Give  me  Fate's  sovereign,  well  to  bear  the  fate 

Thy  pleasure  sends  :  this,  my  sole  prayer,  allow  ! 


LANGUAGE    OF    GEMS. 

Look  !  here's  a  ruby  ;  drinking  solar  rays, 

I  saw  it  redden  on  a  mountain  tip ; 
Now  on  thy  snowy  bosom  let  it  blaze : 

'T  will  blush  still  deeper  to  behold  thy  lip ! 
Here 's  for  thy  hair  a  garland :  every  flower 

That  spreads  its  blossoms,  watered  by  the  tear 
Of  the  sad  slave  in  Babylonian  bower, 

Might  sec  its  frail  bright  hues  perpetuate  here. 
For  morn's  light  bell,  this  changeful  amethyst  • 

A  sapphire  for  the  violet's  tender  blue  ; 
Large  opals,  for  the  queenrose  zephyr  kist ; 

And  here  are'  emeralds  of  every  hue, 
For  folded  bud  and  leaflet,  dropped  with  dew 
And  here's  a  diamond,  culled 'from  Indian  mine, 

To  gift  a  haughty  queen :  it  might  not  be  ; 
I  knew  a  worthier  brow,  sister  divine, 

And  brought  the  gem ;  for  well  I  deem  for  tbee 
The  "arch  cbymic  sun"  in  earth's   dark  Inborn 
wrought 

To  prison  thus  a  ray,  that  when  dull  Night 
Frowns  o'er  her  realms,  and  Nature's  all  seem* 
naught, 

She  whom  be  grieves  to  leave  may  still  behold  his 
light. 


82 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


AMIITTlOy. 

Wo  to  thce,  wild  Ambition  !  I  employ 

Despair's  low  notes  thy  dread  effects  to  tell ; 
Born  in  high  hea%  en,  her  peace  thou  couldst  destroy ; 

And,  but  for  thce,  there  had  not  been  a  hell. 
Through  the  celestial  domes  thy  clarion  pealed  ; 

Angels,  entranced,  beneath  thy  banners  ranged, 
And  straight  were  fiends ;  hurled  from  the  shrinking 

They  waked  in  agony  to  wail  the  change.  [field, 
Darting  through  all  her  veins  the  subtle  fire, 

Trie  world's  fair  mistress  first  inhaled  thy  breath ; 
To  lot  of  higher  beings  learned  to  aspire ; 

Dared  to  attempt,  and  doomed  the  world  to  death. 
The  thousand  wild  desires,  that  still  torment 

The  fiercely  struggling  soul  where  peace  once  dwelt, 
But  perished  ;  feverish  hope  ;  drear  discontent, 

Impoisoning  all  possessed — oh  !  I  have  felt 
As  spirits  feel — yet  not  for  man  we  moan : 

Scarce  o'er  the  silly  bird  in  state  were  he, 
That  builds  his  nest,  loves,  sings  the  morn's  return, 

And  sleeps  at  evening,  save  by  aid  of  thee. 
Fame  ne'er  had  roused,  nor  Song  her  records  kept ; 

The  gem,  the  ore,  the  marble  breathing  life, 
The  pencil's  colors,  all  in  earth  had  slept, 

Now  see  them  mark  with  death  his  victim's  strife. 
Man  found  thee,  Death  :  but  Death  and  dull  Decay, 

Baffling,  by  aid  of  thee,  his  mastery  proves ; 
By  mighty  works  he  swells  his  narrow  day, 

And  reigns,  for  ages,  on  the  world  he  loves. 
Yet  what  the  price  1    With  stings  that  never  cease 

Thou  goadst  him  on  ;  and  when  too  keen  the  smart, 
His  highest  dole  he  'd  barter  but  for  peace — 

Food  thou  wilt  have,  or  feast  upon  his  heart. 

MELES     AXD     EGLA    CONTRASTED. 

She  meekly  stood.     He  fastened  round  her  arms 

Rings  of  refulgent  ore ;  low  and  apart 
Murmuring,  "So,  beauteous  captive,  shall  thy  charms 

For  ever  thrall  and  clasp  thy  captive's  heart." 
The  air's  li<rht  touch  seemed  softer  as  she  moved, 

In  languid  resignation  ;  his  quick  eye 
Spoke  in  black  glances  how  she  was  approved, 

Who  shrank  reluctant  from  its  ardency. 
'Twas  sweet  to  look  upon  the  goodly  pair 

In  their  contrasted  loveliness :  her  height 
Might  almost  vie  with  his,  but  heavenly  fair, 

Of  soil- proportion  she,  and  sunny  hair;  [night. 
He  cast  in  manliest  mould,  with  ringlets  murk  as 
And  oft.  her  drooping  and  resigned  blue  eye 

She'd  wistful  raise  to  read  his  radiant  face; 
But  then,  why  shrunk  her  heart? — a  secret  sigh 

Told  her  it  most  required  what  there  it  could°not 
trace. 

EGLA     RECLIXTXG. 

Lone  in  the  still  retreat, 

Wounding  the  (lowers  to  sweetness  more  intense, 
Sue  sank.  Thus  kindly  Nature  lets  our  wo 

Swell  till  it  bursts  forth  from  the  o'erfraught  breast ; 
Then  draws  an  opiate  from  the  bitter  flow, 

And  lays  her  sorrowing  child  soft  in  the  lap  of  Rest. 
Now  all  the  mortal  maid  lies-indolent 

save  one  sweet  cheek,  which  the  cool  velvet  turf 
Had  touched  too  rude,  though  all  with  blooms  be 
sprent. 


One  soft  arm  pillowed.     Whiter  than  the  surf 
That  foams  against  the  sea  rock  looked  her  neck 

By  the  dark,  glossy,  odorous  shrubs  relieved, 
That  close  inclining  o'er  her,  seemed  to  reck 

What  't  was  they  canopied ;  and  quickly  heaveii 
Beneath  her  robe's  white  folds  and  azure  zone, 

Her  heart  yet  incom posed ;  a  fillet  through 
Peeped  softly  azure,  while  with  tender  moan, 

As  if  of  bliss,  Zephyr  her  ringlets  blew 
Sportive :  about  her  neck  their  gold  he  twined  • 

Kissed  the  soft  violet  on  her  temples  warm, 
And  eyebrow  just  so  dark  might  well  define 

Its  flexile  arch — throne  of  expression' 9  charm. 
As  the  vexed  Caspian,  though  its  rage  be  past, 

And  the  blue  smiling  heavens  swell  o'er  in  peace, 
Shook  to  the  centre  by  the  recent  blast,       [cease ; 

Heaves  on  tumultuous  still,  and  hath  n^t  power  to 
So  still  each  little  pulse  was  seen  to  throb, 

Though  passion  and  its  pain  were  lulled  to  rest ; 
And  ever  and  anon  a  piteous  sob 

Shook  the  pure  arch  expansive  o'er  her  breast. 


AX    ARCHER. 

Rememberest  thou 

When  to  the  altar,  by  thy  father  reared, 
As  we  went  forth  with  sacrifice  and  vow, 

A  victim  dove  escaped,  and  there  appeared 
A  stranger  ?     Quickly  from  his  shrilly  string 

He  let  an  arrow  glance ;  and  to  a  tree 
Nailed  last  the  little  truant,  by  the  wing, 

And  brought  it.  scarcely  bleeding,  back  to  thee. 
His  voice,  his  mien,  the  lustre  of  his  eye, 

And  pretty  deed  he  'd  done,  were  theme  of  praise; 
Though  blent  with  fear  that  stranger  should  espy 

Thy  lonely  haunts.     When,  in  the  sunny  rays 
He  turned  and  went,  with  black  locks  clustering 

Around  his  pillar  neck — "  'T  is  pity  he,"      [bright 
Thou  saidst,  "  in  all  the  comeliness  and  might 

Of  perfect  man,  'tis  pity  he  should  be 
But  an  idolator !     How  nobly  sweet 

He  tempers  pride  with  courtesy  !     A  flow-er 
Drops  honey  when  he  speaks.     His  sandaled  feet 

Are  light  as  antelope's.     He  stands,  a  tower." 


EGLA  S    COURAGE. 

Despite  of  all,  the  starting  tear, 

The  melting  tone,  the  blood  suffusive,  proved 
The  soul  that  in  them  spoke  could  spurn  at  fear 

Of  death  or  danger ;  and  had  those  she  loved 
Required  it  at  their  need,  she  could  have  stood, 

Unmoved,  as  some  fair  sculptured  statue,  while 
The  dome  that  guards  it,  earth's  convulsions  rude 

Are  shivering,  meeting  ruin  with  a  smile. 

SIGHIXG    FOR    THE    V X  ATTAIXA  B  Li.. 

'Tis  as  a  vine  of  Galilee  should  say, 
"  Culturer,  I  reck  not  thy  support,  I  sigh 

For  a  young  palm  tree  of  Euphrates;  nay, 
Or  let  me  him  entwine,  or  in  my  blossom  die." 

LOVE'S    SURGERY. 

He  who  would  gain 
A  fond,  full  heart — in  love's  soft  surgery  skilled, 

Should  seek  it  when  'tis  sore ;  allay  its  pain 
With  balm  by  pity  prest :  'tis  all  his  own  so  healed 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


ODE  ON  REVISITING  CUBA. 

ISLE  of  eternal  spring,  thou'rt  desolate 
To  me ;  thy  limpid  seas,  thy  fragrant  shores, 
Whither  I  've  sighed  to  come 
And  make  a  tranquil  home, 

Have  lost  to  me  their  charm ;  my  heart  deplores, 
Vainly,  of  two  it  loved  the  melancholy  doom. 

Well  may  I  weep  you,  gentle  souls,  that,  while 
On  earth,  responded  to  the  love  of  mine, 
Through  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
More  deeply,  fondly  true, 
Haply,  than  He,  who  lent  his  breath  divine, 
May  give  again  on  earth  to  cheer  me  with  their 

smile. 

Mv  George,  if  thcu  hadst  faults,  they  only  were 
That,  thou  wert  gifted  ill  for  this  poor  sphere 
Where  first  he  faints  who  spares 
Earth's  selfish,  sordid  cares ; 
And  what  might  fau'ts  to  baser  eyes  appear, 
When  ta'en  where  angels  dwell,  must  be  bright  vir 
tues  there. 

Men  toil,  betray,  nay,  even  kill,  for  gold ; 
But  had  some  wretch  pressed  by  misfortune  sore 
Asked  thy  last  piece  of  thee 
To  ease  his  misery, 

When  thou  couldst  only  look  to  Heaven  for  more, 
That  last  piece  had  been  given,  and  thine  own  safety 

sold. 

Oft  when  the  noisome  streams  of  pestilence 
Poisoned  the  air  around  thee,  hast  thou  stayed 
By  friends,  while  thirsty  Death 
Lurked  near,  to  quaff  their  breath ; 
And  soothed  and  saved  while  others  were  afraid, 
And  hardier  hearts  and  hands  than  thine  rushed 
wildly  thence. 

Oh,  could  I  find  thee  in  some  palm  leaf  cot, 
Still  for  this  earth,  with  thy  sweet  brothers  too, 
Though  scarce  our  worldly  hoard 
Sufficed  a  frugal  board, 

Hope  should  beguile  no  more  :  I  'd  live  for  you, 
Disclaim  all  other  love — and  sing,  and  bless  my  lot. 

All  other  love  ? — what  love  for  me  was  e'er, 
My  Edgar,  oh,  my  first  born  !  like  to  thine  1 
Too  faithful  for  thy  state 
Thou  wert — too  passionate — 
Too  vehement — devoted — Powers  benign  ! 
That  thy  last  pain  should  pass,  and  I  not  by  to 

share ! 

Love  speaks,  'tis  said,  but  what  eiitones  his  voice  1 
Avarice,  ambition,  vanity,  or  oft 
Sensations  such  as  wake 
Blind  mole  and  mottled  snake ; 
Fierce  with  the  cruel,  gentle  with  the  soft — 
Promiscuous   in    their  aim, — indifferent  in   their 

choice. 

Haply  more  often  but  the  common  wants, 
That  man  with  every  mortal  creature  feels, 
And  satisfaction  finds 
Tn  mantK  as  it  binds 

His  neck,  when  cold  ;  or  in  those  daily  meals 
Sufficing  all  the  life  lhat  coldness  leads  or  vaunts. 


If  one  be  lost,  another  serves  as  well ; 
Another  mantle,  or  another  fair, 
As  well  may  be  his  own 
If  one  dies  his — alone 

He  sighs  not  long ; — enter  his  home,  and  there, 
When  past  one  little  year,  another  fair  will  dwell. 

Or  see  yon  smiling  Creole — her  b'.ack  hair 
Braided  and  glittering,  with  one  lover's  gold. 
Ere  the  quick  flower  has  grown 
O'er  where  he  sleeps  alone, 
Already  to  some  other  lover  so'd, 
Or  given,  what  both  call  love,  and  he's  content  to 

share. 

Better  for  those  who  love  this  world,  to  be 
Even  as  such :  a  pure,  pure  flame,  intense, 
Edgar,  as  thine,  consumes 
The  cheek  its  light  illumes ;  [hence, 

And  he  whose  heart  enshrines  such  flame,  must 
And  join  with  it,  betimes,  its  own  eternity. 
For  masculine  or  feminine  gave  naught 
Of  fuel  to  the  hallowed  fire,  that  burned 
And  urged  thee  on,  of  life. 
Reckless,  amid  the  strife 

For  worldly  wealth,  that  better  had  been  spurned  : 
Thy  happiness  and  love,  alas !  were  all  I  sought. 
How  could  I  kneel  and  kiss  the  hand  of  Fate, 
Were  it  but  mine  to  decorate  some  hall — 
Here,  where  the  soil  I  tread 
Colors  my  feet  with  red — 
Far  down  these  isles,  to  hear  your  voices  call, 
Then  haste  to  hear  and  tell  what  happ'd  while  sep 
arate  ! 

Beautiful  isles !  beneath  the  sunset  skies 
Tall  si'ver  shafted  palm  trees  rise  between 
Full  orange  trees  that  shade 
The  living  colonnade ; 
Alas !  how  sad,  how  sickening  is  the  scene 
That  were  ye  at  my  side  would  be  a  paradise ! 
E'en  one  of  those  cool  caves  which,  light  and  dry, 
In  many  a  leafy  hillside,  near  this  spot, 
Seem  as  by  Nature  made 
For  shelter  and  for  shade 
To  such  as  bear  a  homeless  wanderer's  lot, 
Were  home  enough  for  me,  could  those  I  mourn 

be  nigh. 

Pa1  ace  or  cave  (where  neath  the  blossom  and  lime 
Winter  lies  hid  with  wreaths)  alike  may  be, 
If  love  and  taste  unite, 
A  dwelling  for  delight, 

And  kings  might  leave  their  silken  courts,  to  see 
O'er  such  wild,  garnished  grot,  the  grandiflora  climb. 
Thus,  thus,  doth  quick  eyed  Fancy  fondly  wait 
The  pauses  of  my  deep  remorse  between ; 
Before  my  anxious  eyes 
'T  is  thus  her  pictures  rise  ; 

They  show  what  is  not,  yet  what  might  have  been , 
Angels,  why  came  I  not !— why  have  I  come  too 

late  ! 
The  coolinb  Severage— strengthening  draught— as 

craved 

The  needs  of  both,  could  but  these  hands  ha»o 
given ; 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


Could  I  have  watched  tlie  glow — 
The  pulse,  too  quick,  (or  slow — 
My  earnest,  fond,  reiterate  prayers  to  Heaven, 
Some  angel  might  have  come,  besought,  returned, 
and  saved. 

To  stay  was  imbecility — nay,  more —  [see 

'T  was  crime — how  yearned  my  panting  heart  to 
When,  by  mere  words  de'ayed, 
'Gainst  the  strong  wish,  I  stayed, 
(Trifling  with  that  which  in'y  spoke  to  me,) 
And  longed,  and  hoped,  and  feared,  till  all  I  feared 
was  o'er ! 

Mi'd,  pitying  George,  when  map'e  leaves  were  red 
O'er  Ladaiianna*  in  his  much  loved  north, 
Breathed  here  his  last  farewell— 
And  when  the  tears  that  fell 
From  April,  caLed  Mohecan'sf  violets  forth, 
Edgar,  as  following  his,  thy  friend 'y  spirit  fled. 

Now,  side  by  side,  neath  cross  and  tablet  white 
Is  laid,  sweet  brothers,  all  of  you  that's  left; 
Yet.  ail  the  tropic  dew 
Can  damp,  would  seem  not  you  : 
Your  finer  particles  from  earth  are  reft, 
Haply,  (and  so  I  'il  hope,)  for  lovelier  forms  of  light. 

Myriads  of  beings,  (for  the  whole  that's  known 
In  all  this  world's  combined  philosophy,) 
The  eternal  will  obeyed, 
To  finish  what  was  made,  [and  sea 

When,  warm  with  new  breathed  life,  new  earth 
Returned  the  smile  of  Him  who  blessed  them  from 
his  throne. 

Such  beings,  haply,  hovering  round  us  now, 
When  flesh  or  flowers  in  beauty  fade  or  fall, 
Gather  each  precious  tint 
Once  seen  to  glow  and  glint, 
With  fond  economy  to  gladden  all : 
Heaven's  hands,  howe'er  profuse,  no  atom's  loss 
allow. 

Yet,  brothers,  spirits,  loiter  if  ye  may 
A  little  while,  and  look  on  all  I  do — 
Oh  !   loiter  for  my  sake, 
Ere  other  tasks  ye  take, 
Toward  all  I  should  do  influence  my  view. 
Then  haste,  to  hear  the  spheres  chime  with  heaven's 
favorite  lay. 

Go,  hand  in  hand,  to  regions  new  and  fair, 
In  shapes  and  colors  for  the  scene  arrayed — 
With  looks  as  bland  and  dear 
As  charms,  bv  glimpses,  here. 
Receive  divine  commissions;  follow — aid 
Those  legions  formed  in  heaven  for  many  a  guardian 
care. 

By  every  sigh,  and  throb,  and  painful  throe, 
Remembered  but  to  heighten  the  delight 
That  crowns  the  advancing  state 
Of  sou's  emancipate — 
Oh !  as  I  think  of  you,  at  lonely  night, 
Say  to  my  heart,  ye  're  blest,  and  I  can  bear  my  wo. 

Island  of  Cubu-Cafetel  Hermitu,  May  7,  1S-JO. 


*  I.RdRuanna.  the  aboriginal  name  of  the  St.  Lawrence. 
1  Mohecan,  the  aboriginal  luune  of  the  Hudson. 


ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTED. 

"Con  I'ittat  del  Cic/o." 

THE  dearth  is  sore:  the  orange  leaf  is  curled, 
There's  dust  upon  the  marble  o'er  thy  tomb. 
My  Edgar,  fair  and  dear ; 
Though  the  fifth  sorrowing  year 
Hath  past,  since  first  I  knew  thine  early  doom, 
I  see  thee  still,  though  death  thy  being  hence  hath 
hurled. 

I  could  not  bear  my  lot,  now  thou  art  gone — 
With  heart  o'ersoftened  by  the  many  tears 
Remorse  and  grief  have  drawn — 
Save  that  a  gleam,  a  dawn, 

\  Haply,  of  that -which  lights  thee  now,)  appears,, 
To  unveil  a  few  fair  scenes  of  life's  next  coming 
morn. 

What — where  is  heaven  1  (earth's  sweetest  lips  ex- 
In  all  the  holiest  seers  have  writ  or  said,     [claim  ;) 
Blurred  are  the  pictures  given: 
We  know  not  what  is  heaven, 
Save  by  those  views,  mysteriously  spread, 
When  the  soul  looks  afar  by  light  of  her  own  flame. 

Yet  all  our  spirits,  while  on  earth  so  faint, 
By  glimpses  dim,  discern,  conceive,  or  know, 
The  Eternal  Power  can  mould 
Real  as  fruits  or  gold — 

Bid  the  celestial,  roseate  matter  glow,         [paint. 
And  forms  more  perfect  smile  than  artists  carve  or 

To  realize  every  creed,  conceived 
In  mortal  brain,  by  love  and  beauty  charmed, 
Even  like  the  ivory  maid 
Who,  as  Pygmalion  prayed, 
Oped  her  white  arms,  to  life  and  feeling  warmed, 
Would  lightly  task  the  power  of  life's  great  Chief 
believed. 

If  Grecian  Phidias,  in  stone  like  this, 
Thy  tomb,  could  do  so  much,  what  can  not  he 
Who  from  the  cold,  coarse  clod, 
By  reckless  laborer  trod, 
Can  call  such  tints  as  meeting  seraphs  see, 
And  give  them  breath  and  warmth  like  true  love's 
soulfelt  kiss  1 

Wild  fears  of  dark  annihilation,  go ! 
Be  warm,  ye  veins,  now  blackening  with  despair  ! 
Years  o'er  thee  have  revolved, 
My  firstborn — thou'rt  dissolved — 
All — every  tint — save  a  few  ringlets  fair — 
Still,  if  thou  didst  not  live,  how  could  I  love  thee  so? 

Quick  as  the  warmth  which  darts  from  breast  to 
When  lovers,  from  afar,  each  other  see,     [breast, 
Haply,  thy  spirit  went, 
Where  mine  would  fain  be  sent, 
To  take  a  heavenly  form,  designed  to  be 
Meet  dwelling  for  the  soul  thine  azure  eye  exprest 

Thy  deep  blue  eye  !  say,  can  heaven's  bliss  exceed 
The  joy  of  some  brief  moments  tasted  here  1 
Ah !  could  I  taste  again — 
Is  there  a  mode  of  pain 

Which,  for  such  guerdon,  could  be  deemed  severe  1 
Be  ours  the  forms  of  heaven,  and  let  rne  bend  an-1 
bleed  ! 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


To  be  in  place,  even  like  some  spots  on  earth, 
in  those  sweet  moments  when  no  ill  comes  near ; 
Where  perfumes  round  us  wreathe, 
And  the  pure  air  we  breathe 
Nerves  and  exhilarates ;  while  all  we  hear 
60  tells  content  and  love,  we  sigh  and  bless  our  birth. 

To  clasp  thee,  Edgar,  in  a  fragrant  shape 
Of  fair  perfection,  after  death's  sad  hour, 
Known  as  the  same  1  've  prest, 
Erst,  to  this  aching  breast — 
The  same — but  finished  by  a  kind,  bland  Power, 
Which  only  stopped  thy  heart  to  let  thy  soul  es 
cape — 

Oh !  every  pain  that  vexed  thy  mortal  life, 
Nay,  even  the  lives  of  all  who  round  thee  lie  : 
Be  this  one  bliss  my  share, 
The  whole  condensed  I  '11  bear — 
Bless  the  benign  creative  hand — and  sigh, 
And  kneel,  to  ask  again  the  expiatory  strife  ! — 

Strife,  for  the  hope  of  making  others  blest, 
Who  trespassed  only  that  they  were  not  brave 
Enough  to  hear  or  take 
Pains,  even  for  pity's  sake ; 
Strife,  for  the  hope  to  wake,  incite,  and  save, 
Even  those  who,  dull  with  crime,  know  not  fair 
honor's  zest, 

If,  in  the  pauses  of  my  agony, 
(Be  it  or  flame,  stab,  scourge,  or  pestilence,) 
If,  fresh  and  blest,  as  dear, 
Thou  'It  come  in  beauty,  near — 
Speak,  and  with  looks  of  love  charm  my  keen  sense, 
I  '11  deem  it  heaven  enough  even  thus  to  feel  and 

see!— 

To  feel  my  hand  wrenched,  as  with  mortal  rack ; 
Then  see  it  healed,  and  ta'en,  and  kindly  prest ; 
And  fair  as  blossoms  white 
Of  cerea  in  the  night ; 

While  tears,  that  fall  upon  thy  spotless  breast, 
Are  sweet  as  drops  from  flowers  touched  in  thy 
heavenly  track ! 

In  form  to  bear  nor  stain  nor  scar  designed — 
Yes  !  let  me  kneel  to  agonize  again : 
Ask  every  torment  o'er 
More  poignant  than  before  ; 
Of  a  whole  world  the  price  of  a  whole  pain, 
Were  small  for  such  blest  gifts  of  matter  and  of  mind ! 

Comes  a  cold  doubt — that  still  thou  art  alive, 
Edgar,  my  heart  tells  while  these  numbers  thrill. 
Yet  of  a  bliss  so  dear, 
And  as  death's  portal's  near, 
I  feel  mt-  too  unworthy  :  dreary  Time 
I  fear  must  bear  his  part  ere  Hope  her  plight  fulfil ! 

Time,  time  was  meet  (so  many  a  sacred  scroll 
Has  told  and  tells)  ere  light  was  bid  to  smile ; 
Ere  yet  the  spheres,  revealed, 
Gave  music,  as  they  wheeled ; 
Warm,  rife,  eternal  love-*-a  time — a  while — 
Brooded  and  charmed,  and  ranged  till  chaos  gloomed 

no  more. 

As  time  was  needful  ere  a  world  could  bloom 
With  forms  of  flowers  and  flesh,  haply  must  wait 


Some  spirits ;  and  lingering  still, 
Of  deeds  both  good  and  ill 

Mark  the  effect  in  intermediate  state,  [tomb. 

And  think,  and  pause,  and  weep,  even  over  their  own 

Be  it  so :  if  thin  as  fragrance,  light,  or  heat, 
Thine  essence,  floating  on  the  ambient  air, 
Can,  with  freed  intellect, 
View  every  deed's  effect, 
Read,  even  my  heart,  in  all  its  pantings  bare : 
When  denser  pulses  cease,  how  sweet,  even  thus, 

to  meet ! 

To  roam  those  deep  green  aisles,  crowned  with  tall 
And  weep  for  all  who  tire  of  toil  and  ill,   [palms., 
While  moons  of  winter  bring 
Their  blossoms  fair  as  spring ; 
To  move  unseen  by  all  we've  left,  and  will 
Such  influence  to  their  souls  as  half  their  pain  be 
calms  ; — 

On  deep  Mohccan's  mounts  to  view  the  spot 
Where,  as  these  arms  were  oped  to  clasp  thee,  came 
The  tidings,  dread  and  cold, 
I  never  more  might  hold 
Thy  pulsing  form,  nor  meet  the  gentle  flame 
Of  thy  lair  eyes,  till  mine  for  those  of  earth  were  not; 

On  precipice  where  the  gray  citadel 
Hangs  over  Ladaiianna's  billows  clear, 
How  sweet  to  pause  and  view, 
As  erst,  the  far  canoe ; 

To  glide  by  friends,  who  know  not  we  are  near, 
And  hear  them  of  ourselves  in  tender  memory  tell ; 

Or  where  Niagara  with  maddening  roar 
Shakes  the  worn  cliff,  haply  to  flit,  and  ken 
Some  angel,  as  he  sighs 
With  pleasure  at  the  dyes 
Of  the  wild  depth,  while  to  the  eyes  of  men 
Invisible  we  speak  by  signs  unknown  before ; 
Or,  far  from  this  wild  western  world,  where  dwelt 
That  brow  whose  laurels  bore  a  leaf  for  mine, 
W'hen,  strong  in  sympathy, 
Thy  sprite  shall  roam  with  me, 
Edgar,  mid  Derwent's  flowers,  one  soul  benign 
May  to  thy  soul  impart  the  joy  I  there  have  felt ! 
What  though  "  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds," 
Mid  storms  and  rocks,  like  earthly  ship,  were 
Unsevcred  while  we  're  blent,  [dashed  • 

We  '11  bear  in  sweet  content 
The  shock  of  falling  bolt  or  forest  craohed, 
While  thoughts  of  hope  and  love  nerve  well  oui 

mystic  minds. 

Wafted  or  wandering  thus,  souls  may  be  found 
Or  ripe  for  forms  of  heaven,  or  for  that  state 
Of  which,  when  angels  think, 
Or  saints,  they  weep  and  shrink ; 
And  oft,  to  draw,  01  save  from  such  dread  f;ite, 
Are  fain  their  beauteous  heads  to  dash  'gainst  blood 
stained  ground. 

Freed  from  their  earthly  gyves,  if  spirits  laugh 
And  shriek  with  horrid  joy,  when  victims  bleeil 
Or  suffer,  as  we  view 
Mortals  in  vileness  do, 

The  Eternal  and  his  court  may  keep  their  meed 
Of  joy  :  far  other  cups  fell  thirsty  Guilt  must  quaff ' 


Qfl 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


Oh,  Edgar !  spirit,  or  on  earth  or  air, 
Seen,  or  impalpable  to  artist's  sketch, 
In  essence,  or  in  form, 
In  bliss,  pain,  calm,  or  storm. 
Let  us,  wherever  met  a  suffering  wretch, 
Task  every  power  to  shield  and  save  him  from  de 
spair  ! 

Nature  hath  secrets  mortals  ne'er  suspect  : 
At  s:»nc  we  glance,  while  some  are  sealed  in  night ; 
The  optician,  by  his  skill, 
Even  now  can  show,  at  will, 
Long  absent  pheers,  in  shapes  of  moving  light: 
If  man  so  much  can  do,  what  can  no-  Heaven  ef 
fect  ! 

Shade,  image,  manes,  all  the  ancient  priest 
Told  to  his  votarists  in  fraud  or  zeal, 
May  be,  and  might  have  been, 
By  means  and  arts  we  ween 
No  more  of,  in  this  age  :  for  wo  or  weal 
Of  man,  full  much  foreknown  to  this  late  race  hath 

ceased. 

That  souls  may  take  ambrosial  forms  in  heaven, 
A  dawning  science  half  assures  the  hope: 
These  forms  may  sleep  and  smile 
Midst  heaven's  fresh  roses,  while 
Their  spirits,  free,  roam  o'er  this  world's  whole  scope 
For  pleasure  and  for  good,  Heaven's  full  permission 


I  have  not  sung  of  meeting  those  we've  loved, 
Or  known,  and  listening  to  then-  accents  meek, 
While,  pitying  all  they  've  pained 
On  earth,  while  passion  reigned, 
To  wreak  redress  upon  themselves  they  seek, 
And  bless,  for  each  stern  deed,  the  pain  they  now 
have  proved. 

I  have  not  sung  of  the  first,  fairest  court, 
Of  all  those  mansions ;  of  the  heavenly  home, 
Of  which  the  best  hath  told 
Who  e'er  trod  earthly  mould ; 
To  courts  of  earthly  kings  the  fairest  come, 
Haply,  to  show  faint  types  of  this  supreme  resort ! 
Haply,  the  Sire  of  sires  may  take  a  form 
And  give  an  audience  to  each  set  unfurled 
With  bands  of  sympathy, 
Wreathen  in  mystery,^ 
Round  those  who've  known  each  other  in  this 

world, 
Perfecting  all  the  rest,  and  breathing  beauty  warm. 

Kssence.  ]i<'ht.  heat,  form,  throbbing  arteries 

To  deem  each  possible,  enough  I  see  ! 
Ed^ar,  thou  knowest  I  wait: 
Guard  my  expectant  state — • 

Console  me,  as  I  bend  in  prayers  for  thee 

Aid  me,  even  as  thou  mayst,  both  Heaven  and  thee 
to  pi. 

This  song  to  thee  alone  !  though  he  who  shares 
Thy  bed  of  stone,  shared  well  my  love  with  thee  ; 
Vet.  in  bis  noble  heart 
Another  bore  a  part, 

Whilst  thou  bailst  never  other  love  than  me: 
Sprites,  brothers,  manes,  shades,  present  my  tears 

and  prayers  ! 
IV.riei-   isliiml  of  Cuba,  July  24.  1644. 


HYMN. 

SIRK,  Maker,  Spirit,  who  alone  cans  know 

My  soul  and  all  the  deep  remorse  that's  there — 
I  ask  no  mitigation  of  my  wo ; 

Yet  pity  me,  and  give  me  strength  to  bear ! 
Remorse  ? — ah  !  not  for  ill  designedly  done  : 

To  look  on  pain,  to  me  is  pain  severe ; 
Yet,  yet,  dear  forms  which  Death  from  me  hath  won, 
Had  Love  been  Wisdom,  haply  ye  were  here  ! 
Much  have  I  suffered ;  yet  this  form,  unscathed, 

Declares  thy  kind  protection,  by  its  thrift  : 
With  secret  dews  the  wounded  plant  is  bathed ; 

My  ills  are  my  desert,  my  good  thy  gift. 
Three  years  are  flown  since  my  sore  heart  bereft 

Hath  mourned  for  two,  ta'en  by  the  powers  on  high, 
Nor  tint  nor  atom  that  is  fair  is  left 

Beneath  the  marble  where  their  relics  He. 
Yet  no  oblivious  veil  is  o'er  them  cast : 

Blent  with  my  blood,  the  sympathetic  glow 
Burns  brighter  now  their  mortal  lives  yre  past, 
Than  when,  on  earth,  I  felt  their  joy  and  wo. 
Oh  !  may  their  spirits,  disembodied,  come, 

And  strong  though  secret  influence  dispense — • 
Pitying  the  sorrows  of  an  earthly  doom, 

And  smoothing  pain  with  sweet  beneficence. 
Oh !  cover  them  with  forms  so  made  to  meet 

The  models  of  their  souls,  that,  when  they  see, 
They  cast  themselves  in  beauty  at  thy  feet, 

In  all  the  heaven  of  grateful  ecstasy. 
Methinks  I  see  them,  side  by  side,  in  love, 

Like  brothers  of  the  zodiac,  all  around 
Diffusing  light  and  fragrance,  as  thev  move 
Harmonious  as  the  spheric  music's  sound. 
And  may  these  forms  in  warm  and  rosy  sleep, 

(In  some  fair  dwelling  for  such  forms  assigned,) 
Lie,  Wiiilc  o'er  air,  earth,  sea,  their  spirits  sweep, 

Quick  as  the  changeful  glance  of  thought  and  mind. 
This  fond  ideal  which  my  grief  relieves, 

Father,  beneath  thy  throne  may  live,  may  be  : 
For  more  than  all  my  feeble  sense  conceives, 

Thy  hand  can  give  in  blest  reality. 
Sire,  Maker,  Spirit!  source  of  all  that's  fair! 
Howe'er  my  poor  words  be  unworthy  theo, 
Oh !  be  not  weary  of  the  imperfect  prayer 
Breathed  from  the  fervor  of  a  wretch  like  me ! 

THE  MOON  OF  FLOWERS. 

On,  moon  of  flowers  !  sweet  moon  of  flowers  !* 

Why  dost  thou  mind  me  of  the  hours 

Which  flew  so  softly  on  that  night 

When  last  I  saw  and  felt  thy  light  1 

Oh,  moon  of  flowers!  thou  moon  cf  flowers! 

Would  thou  couldst  give  me  back  those  houra    ' 

Since  which  a  dull,  cold  year  has  fled, 

Or  show  me  those  with  whom  they  sped ! 

Oh,  moon  of  flowers  !  oh,  moon  of  flowers  ! 

fn  scenes  afar  were  passed  those  hours, 

Which  still  with  fond  regret  I  see, 

And  wish  my  heart  could  change  like  thee ! 

*  The  ?nva>;38  of  the  northern  part  of  America  some 
times  count  bj  moons.   May  theycnll  the  moon  of  flowers 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


TO  THE  RIVER  ST.  LAWRENCE. 

THE  first  time  I  beheld  thee,  beauteous  stream, 
How  pure, how  smooth,ho  w  broad  thy  bosom heav'd ! 

What  feelings  rushed  upon  my  heart ! — a  gleam 
As  of  another  life  my  kindling  soul  received. 

Fair  was  the  day,  and  o'er  the  crowded  deck 
Joy  shone  in  many  a  smile ;  light  clouds,  in  hue 

As  silvery  as  the  new  fledged  cygnet's  neck, 
Cast,  as  they  moved,  faint  shadows  on  the  blue, 

Soft,  deep,  and  distant,  of  the  mountain  chain, 
Wreathing  and  blending,  tint  with  tint,  and  traced 

So  gently  on  the  smiling  sky.     In  vain 
Time,  scene,  has  changed  :  't  will  never  be  effaced. 

Now  o'er  thy  tranquil  breast  the  moonbeams  quiver : 
How  calm  the  air,  how  still  the  hour — how  bright ! 

Would  thouwert  doom'd  to  be  my  grave,  sweet  river ! 
How  blends  my  soul  with  thy  pure  breath  to-night ! 

The  dearest  hours  that  soul  has  ever  known 
Have  been  upon  thy  brink :  would  it  could  wait, 

And,  parted,  watch  thce  still ! — to  stay  and  moan 
With  thee,  were  better  than  my  promised  fate. 

Ladaiianna  !  monarch  of  the  north  ! 

Father  of  streams  unsung,  be  sung  by  me ! 
Receive  a  lay  that  flows  resistless  forth ! 

Oh,  quench  the  fervor  that  consumes,  in  thee ! 

I've  seen  more  beauty  on  thy  banks,  more  bliss, 

Than  I  had  deemed  were  ever  seen  below ; 
Dew  falls  not  on  a  happier  land  than  this ; 

Fruits  spring  from  desert  wilds,  and  love  sits  thron'd 

on  snow; 
Snows  that  drive  warmth  to  shelter  in  the  heart ; 

Snows  that  conceal,  beneath  their  moonlit  heaps, 
Plenty's  rich  embryo;  fruits  and  flowers  that  start 

To  meet  their  full  grown  Spring,  as  strong  to  earth 

he  leaps. 
How  many  grades  of  life  thou  view'st !  thy  wave 

Bears  the  dark  daughter  of  the  woods,  as  light 
She  springs  to  her  canoe,  and  wildly  grave 

Views  the  Great  Spirit  mid  the  fires  of  night. 

A  hardy  race,  sprung  from  the  Gaul,  and  gay, 
Frame  their  wild  songs  and  sing  them  to  the  oar ; 

And  think  to  chase  the  forest  fiends  away, 
WThere  yet  no  mass  bell  tink'.es  from  the  shore. 

The  pensive  nun  throws  back  the  veil  that  hides 
Her  calm,  chaste  eyes;  straining  them  long,  to  mark 

When  the  mist  thickens,  if  perchance  there  bides 
The  peril,  wildering  on,  some  little  bark : 

And  trims  her  lamp  and  hangs  it  in  her  tower; 

Not  as  the  priestess  did  of  old ;  (she's  driven 
To  do  that  deed  by  no  fierce  passion's  power,) 

But  kind  y,  ca'mly,  for  the  love  of  Heaven. 

Who  had  been  lost,  what  heart  from  breaking  saved, 
She  knows  not,  thinks  not ;  guided  by  her  star, 

Some  being  leaps  to  shore  :  'twas  all  she  craved ; 
She  makes  the  holy  sign,  and  blesses  him  from  far. 

The  plaided  so'dier,  in  his  mountain  pride 
Exulting,  as  he  treads  with  statelier  pace, 

Views  his  white  limbs  reflected  in  thy  tide, 
While  wave  the  sable  plumes  that  shade  his  manly 
face. 


The  song  of  Ossian  mingles  with  thy  gale, 
The  harp  of  Carolan's  remembered  here; 

The  bright  haired  son  of  Erin  tells  his  tale, 
Dreams  of  his  misty  isle,  and  drops  for  her  a  tear 

Thon'st  seen  the  trophies  of  that  deathless  day, 
Whosename  brightglancefromev'ry  Briton  brings, 

When  half  the  world  was  marshalled  in  array, 
And  fell  the  great,  self  nurtured  "  king  of  kings.'" 

Youthful  Columbia,  ply  thy  useful  arts; 

Rear  the  strong  nursling  that  thy  mother  bore, 
Ca'led  Liberty.     Thy  boundless  fields,  thy  marts. 

Enough  for  thee :  tempt  these  brown  rocks  no  more ; 

Or  leave  them  to  that  few,  who,  blind  to  gold, 
And  scorning  pleasure,  brave  with  higher  zest 

A  doubtful  path ;  mid  pain,  want,  censure,  bold 
To  pant  one  fevered  hour  on  Genius'  breast. 

Nature's  best  loved,  thine  own,  thy  virtuous  West 
Chose  for  his  pencil  a  Canadian  sky  : 

Bade  Death  recede,  who  the  fallen  victor  prest, 
And  made  perpetuate  his  latest  sigh.* 

Sully,  of  tender  tints  transparent,  fain 
I  would  thy  skill  a  while  ;  for  Memory  's  showing 

To  prove  thy  hand  the  purest  of  thy  train, 
A  native  beauty  from  thy  pencil  glowing. 

Or  he  who  sketched  the  Cretan  :  gone  her  Greek, 

She,  all  unconscious  that  he's  false  or  flying, 
Sleeps,  while  the  light  blood  revels  in  her  cheek 

So  rosy  warm,  we  listen  for  her  sighing.t 
Could  he  paint  beauty,  warmth,  light,  happiness, 

Diffused  around  like  fragrance  from  a  flower — 
And  melody — all  that  sense  can  bless, 

Or  soul  concentrate  in  one  form — his  power 

I'd  ask.     But  Nat\*e,  Nature,  when  thou  wilt, 

Thou  canst  enough  to  make  all  art  despair; 
Guard  well  the  wondrous  model  thou  hast  built, 

Which  these,  thy  nectared  waves,  reflect  and  love 

to  bear. 
Nature,  all  powerful  Nature,  thine  are  ties 

That  seldom  break  :  though  the  heart  beat  so  cold, 
That  Love  and  Fancy's  fairest  garland  dies — 

Though  false,  though  light  as  air — thy  bonds  may 

hold. 
The  mother  loves  her  child  ;  the  brother  yet 

Thinks  of  his  sister,  though  for  years  unseen  ; 
And  seldom  doth  the  bridegroom  quite  forget 

Her  who  ha%. Ablest  him  once,  though  seas  may 

roll  between. 
But  can  a  friendship,  pure  and  rapture  wrought, 

Endure  without  such  bonds'?     I'll  deem  it  may. 
And  bless  the  hope  it  nurtures  :  beauteous  thought 

Howe'er  fantastic  ! — dear  illusion — stay  ! 
Oh  stream,  oh  country  of  my  heart,  farewell ! 

Say,  shall  I  e'er  return?   shall  I  once  more  — 
Ere'close  these  eyes  that  looked  to  love — ah,  foil 

Say,  shall  I  tread  again  thy  fertile  shore  ? 
Else,  how  endure  my  weary  lot — the  strife 

To  gain  content  when  far — the  burning  sigh*- 
The  asking  wish — the  aching  void  ?     Oh,  life  ! 

Thou  art,  and  hast  been,  one  long  sacrifice ! 

*  In  allu-ion  to  \\Vst'.*  celebrated  picture.  "The  P«Mtb 
of  Wolfe."       t  Vuiderlyn— eee  his  picture  of  "Ariadne 


MARIA    BROOKS. 


TO  NIAGARA. 

SPHUT  of  Homer!  thou  whose  so:rj:  has  rung 
From  thine  own  Greece  to  this  supreme  abode 
Of  Nature — this  great  fanc  of  Nature's  God — 

Breathe  on  my  brain  !  oh,  touch  the  fervid  tongue 
Of  a  fond  votaress  kneeling  on  the  sod  ! 

Sublime  and  Beautiful!  your  chapel's  here — 
Here,  'nealh  the  a/.ure  dome  of  heaven,  ye 're  wed; 
Here,  on  this  rock,  which  trembles  as  I  tread, 

Your  blended  sorcery  claims  both  pulse  and  tear, 
Controls  life's  source  and  reigns  o'er  heart  and  head. 

Terrific,  but,  oh, beautiful  abyss! 

If  I  should  trust  my  fascinated  eye, 

Or  hearken  to  thy  maddening  melody,          [ki?s, 
Sense,  form,  would  spring  to  meet  thy  white  foam's 

Be  lapped  in  thy  soft  rainbows  once,  and  die  ! 

Color,  depth,  height,  extension — all  unite 
To  chain  the  spirit  by  a  look  intense  ! 
The  dolphin  in  his  clearest  seas,  or  thence 

Ta'en,  for  some  queen,  to  deck  of  ivory  white, 
Dies  not  in  changeful  tints  more  delicately  bright. 

Look,  look !  there  comes,  o'er  yon  pale  green  ex- 
Bevond  the  curtain  of  this  altar  vast,  [panse, 
A  glad  young  swan ;  the  smiling  beams  that  cast 

Light  from  her  plumes,  have  lured  her  soft  advance  ; 
She  nears  the  fatal  brink :  her  graceful  life  has  past ! 

Look  up !  nor  her  fond,  foolish  fate  disdain  : 
An  eagle  rests  upon  the  wind's  sweet  breath ; 
Feels  he  the  charm  1  woos  he  the  scene  beneath  1 

He  eyes  the  sun;  nerves  his  dark  wing  again; 
Remembers  clouds  and  storms,  yet  flies  the  lovely 
death. 

"  Niagara  !  wonder  of  this  western  world, 
And  half  the  world  beside  !   hail,  beauteous  queen 
Of  cataracts  !" — an  angel,  who  had  been    [furled, 

O'er  heaven  and  earth,  spoke  thus,  his  bright  wings 
And  knelt  to  Nature  first,  on  this  wild  cliff  unseen. 


WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  PHARAMOND. 

HAD  the  blest  fair,  who  gave  thee  birth, 

Lived  where  ^Egean  waves  are  swelling, 
Ere  \et  calm  Reason  came  to  earth, 

Warm  Fancy's  lovelier  reign  dispelling, 
Tbe  Sire  of  heaven,  she  had  believed, 

T<>  stamp  thy  form  had  ta'en  another,* 
And  all  who  saw  had  been  deceived, 

And  given  the  Delphic  god  a  brother. 
And  many  a  classic  page  had  told 

Ofnymphi  and  goddesses  admiring: 
Altars,  libations,  harps  of  gold, 

And  milkwhite  hecatombs  expiring. 
And  oh  !  perchance  there  had  remained 

Some  Pbidian  wonder — still,  still  breathing 
Love,  life,  and  charms — past,  but  retained — 

And  warmth  and  bliss  had  still  seemed  wreathing 
•Softly  around  the  heaven  touched  stone, 

As  now  a  light  seems  from  thee  beaming; 
While  thought,  sense,  lost  in  looks  alone, 

Grow  dubious  if  awake  or  dreaming. 


*  In  allusion  to  the  fable  of  Jupiter  and  Alcmena. 


And  must  thou  pass  1   nor  picture  show, 

Nor  sculpture,  what  my  lyre  is  telling, 
Too  feeble  lyre  !  as  mom's  bright  glow 

Fades  o'er  the  river  near  thy  dwelling  ! 
Spirit  of  Titian  !  hear  and  come, 

If  come  thou  may'st,  a  moment  hither ; 
Leave  thy  loved  Italy,  thy  home — 

Oh  !  let  but  one  acanthus  wither 
Round  her  loved  ruins,  while  thou  stayest ; 

Come  to  these  solitudes,  and  view  them : 
Must  Genius  ne'er  their  beauties  taste, 

Nor  tear  of  rapture  ever  dew  them] — 
View  the  dark  rock,  the  melting  blue 

Of  mount  and  sky  so  soft  embracing ; 
The  bright,  broad  stream :  But  beauty,  hue, 

Life,  form,  are  here — all  else  effacing. 
Nature,  to  mock  the  forms  of  bliss 

Which  fervid  mortals  have  created, 
From  their  own  souls'  excess,  made  this, 

And  gazed  at  her  own  powers  elated. 

Fragrant  o'er  all  the  western  groves 

The  tall  magnolia  towers  unshaded, 
But  soon  no  more  the  gale  he  loves 

Faints  on  his  ivory  flowers ;  they  're  faded. 
The  fullblown  rose,  mid  dewy  sweets, 

Most  perfect  dies ;  but,  soon  returning, 
The  next  born  year  another  greets, 

When  summer  fires  again  are  burning. 
Another  rose  may  bloom  as  sweet, 

Other  magnolias  ope  in  whiteness — 
But  who  again  fair  scenes  shall  meet 

The  like  of  him  who  lends  you  brightness  1 
Come,  then,  my  lyre — ere  yet  ajrain 

Fade  these  fresh  fields  I  shall  forsake  them ; 
But  some  fond  ear  may  hear  thy  strain, 

When  all  is  cold  which  thus  can  wake  them. 


PRAYER. 

SIRE  of  the  universe — and  me — 

Dost  thou  reject  my  midnight  prayer ! 
Dost  thou  withhold  me  even  from  thee, 

Thus  writhing,  struggling  'gainst  despair ! 
Thou  knowest  the  source  of  feeling's  gush, 

Thou  knowest  the  end  for  which  it  flows : 
Then,  if  thou  bidst  the  tempest  rush, 

Ah !  heed  the  fragile  bark  it  throws ! 

Fain  would  my  heaving  heart  be  still — 

But  Pain  and  Tumult  mock  at  rest : 
Fain  would  I  meekly  meet  thy  will, 

And  kiss  the  barb  that  tears  my  breast 
Weak  I  am  formed,  I  can  no  more — 

Weary  I  strive,  but  find  not  aid ; 
Prone  on  thy  threshold  I  deplore, 

But  ah  !  thy  succor  is  delayed. 

The  burning,  beauteous  orb  of  day, 

Amid  its  circling  host  upborne, 
Smiles,  as  life  quickens  in  its  ray : 

What  would  it,  were  thy  hand  withdrawn  !- 
Scorch — devastate  the  teeming  whole 

Now  glowing  with  its  warmth  divine  ! 
Spirit,  whose  powers  of  peace  control 

Great  Nature's  heart,  oh  !  pity  mine  ! 


MARIA   BROOKS. 


SONG. 

DAT,  in  melting  purple  dying, 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing, 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying, 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing, 

Ye  hut  waken  my  distress ; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness 

Thou,  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thoti'rt  true,  and  I'll  believe  thee; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent — 
Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure : 
All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure ; 
Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling, 
Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling : 

Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me ; 

I  would  only  look  on  thee ! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high  wrought  feeling, 

Ecstasy  but  in  revealing ; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation, 

Rapture  in  participation, 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still !     Ah  !  come  and  bless  me  ! 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee ; 

Once,  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee : 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee ; 
In  a  look  if  death  there  be, 
Come,  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee ! 


FRIENDSHIP. 

To  MEET  a  friendship  such  as  mine, 
Such  feelings  must  thy  soul  refine 
As  are  not  oft  of  mortal  birth : 
'Tis  love  without  a  stain  of  earth, 
Fratello  del  mio  cor. 

Looks  are  its  food,  its  nectar  sighs, 
Its  couch  the  lips,  its  throne  the  eyes, 
The  soul  its  breath :  and  so  possest, 
Heaven's  raptures  reign  in  mortal  breast, 
Fratello  del  mio  cor. 

Though  Friendship  be  its  earthly  name, 
Purely  from  highest  heaven  it  came ; 
'T  is  seldom  felt  for  more  than  one, 
And  scorns  to  dwell  with  Venus'  son, 
Fratello  efe/  mio  cor. 

Him  let  it  view  not,  or  it  dies 
Like  tender  hues  of  morning  skies, 
Or  morn's  sweet  flower  of  purple  glov» , 
When  sunny  beams  too  ardent  grow, 
Fratello  del  mio  cor. 

A  charm  o'er  every  object  plays ; 
All  looks  so  lovely,  while  it  stays, 


So  softly  forth  in  rosier  tides 

The  vital  flood  ecstatic  glides, 

Fratello  del  mio  cor, 

That,  wrung  by  grief  to  see  it  part, 
A  very  life  drop  leaves  the  heart : 
Such  drop,  I  need  not  tell  thee,  fell, 
While  bidding  it,  for  thee,  farewell ! 
^ra.teih^  del  mio  cor. 


FAREWELL    TO   CUBA. 

ADIEU,  fair  isle  !     I  love  thy  bowers, 
I  love  thy  dark  eyed  daughters  there , 

The  cool  pomegranate's  scarlet  flowers 
Look  brighter  in  their  jetty  hair. 

They  praised  my  forehead's  stainless  white' 
And  when  I  thirsted,  gave  a  draught 

From  the  full  clustering  cocoa's  height, 
And  smiling,  blessed  me  as  I  quaffed. 

Well  pleased,  the  kind  return  I  gave. 

And  clasped  in  their  embraces'  twine, 
Felt  the  soft  breeze,  like  Lethe's  wave, 

Becalm  this  beating  heart  of  mine. 

Why  will  my  heart  so  wildly  beat  ? 

Say,  seraphs,  is  my  lot  too  blest, 
That  thus  a  fitful,  feverish  heat 

Must  rifle  me  of  health  and  resi  1 

Alas  !  I  fear  my  native  snows — 

A  clime  too  cold,  a  heart  too  warm- 
Alternate  chills,  alternate  glows — 

Too  fiercely  threat  my  flower  like  form. 

The  orange  tree  has  fruit  and  flowers ; 

The  grendilla,  in  its  bloom, 
Hangs  o'er  its  high,  luxuriant  bowers, 

Like  fringes  from  a  Tyrian  loom. 
When  the  white  coffee  blossoms  swell, 

The  fair  moon  full,  the  evening  long, 
I  love  to  hear  the  warbling  bell, 

And  sunburnt  peasant's  wayward  song- 
Drive  gently  on,  dark  muleteer, 

And  the  light  seguidilla  frame ; 
Fain  would  I  listen  still,  to  hear 

At  every  close  thy  mistress'  name. 

Adieu,  fair  isle  !  the  waving  palm 
Is  pencilled  on  thy  purest  sky  ; 

Warm  sleeps  the  bay,  the  air  is  balm, 
And,  soothed  to  languor,  scarce  a  sigk 

Escapes  for  those  I  love  so  well, 

For  those  I  've  loved  and  left  so  long ; 
On  me  their  fondest  musings  dwell, 

To  them  alone  my  sighs  belong. 
On,  on,  my  bark !  blow,  southern  Dieeze  . 

No  longer  would  I  lingering  stay  ; 
'T  were  better  far  to  die  with  these 

Than  live  in  pleasure  far  away 


JULIA    RUSH    WARD. 


(Born  1796 -Died  1824). 


Miss  JULIA  RUSH  CUTLER,  the  daughter 
of  the  late  Mr.  B.  C.  Cutler,  of  Boston,  was 
born  in  that  city  on  the  fifth  of  January,  1796. 
Her  maternal  ancestors  were  of  South  Caro- 
li  ia,  and  her  grandmother  was  the  only  sis- 
t'-r  of  the  famous  partisan  leader,  General 
Francis  Marion.  Miss  Cutler  was  married 
on  the  ninth  of  October,  1812,  when  she  was 
;n  the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age,  to  the  late 
Mi.  Samuel  Ward,  of  New  York,  whose  name 
was  lung  conspicuous  for  his  relations  with 
the  commercial  world,  and  who  in  private 
I'll-  was  eminent  for  all  the  virtues  that 
dignify  human  nature.  Mrs.  Ward  came  to 
.New  York  to  reside  at  a  time  when  Irving, 
Paulding,  Cooper,  and  others,  were  making 


their  first  an.1  most  brilliant  essays  in  litera 
ture,  and  hor  fine  abilities,  improved  by  the 
best  culture,  brought  into  her  circle  the  wits 
and  men  of  genius  in  the  city,  who  soon 
perceived  that  she  needed  but  provocation  to 
claim  rank  as  a  star  of  mild  but  pervading 
lustre  in  their  brightest  constellations. 

The  compositions  of  Mrs.  Ward  are  of  the 
class  called  occasional  poems,  written  with 
grace  and  sincerity,  with  a  sort  of  impromptu 
ease,  and  from  a  heart  full  of  truth  and  a 
mind  to  which  beauty  was  familiar  as  the  air. 

She  died  on  the  ninth  of  November,  1824, 
leaving  the  inheritance  of  her  genius  to  her 
daughter,  whose  literary  character  is  exhib 
ited  in  another  part  of  this  volume. 


"SI  JE  TE  PERDS,  JE  SUIS  PERDU."* 

THK  tempest  howls,  the  waves  swell  high, 

Upward  I  cast  my  anxious  eye, 

And  fix  my  gaze,  amidst  the  storm, 

I  "poii  thy  bright  and  heavenly  form. 

Angel  of  mercy  !  beam  to  save  ; 

See.  tossing  OM  the  furious  wave, 

My  litte  bark  is  sorely  prest  : 

( )!i,  guide  me  to  some  port  of  rest; 

Shine  on,  and  all  my  fears  subdue, 

Hi  jr.  ff  perdu,  je  suis  perdu. 

To  catch  the  ray,  my  aching  sight 

Shall  pierce  the  gloomy  mists  of  night; 

But  it',  amidst  the  driving  storm, 

Dark  clouds  should  hide  thy  glittering  form, 

In  vain  each  swelling  wave  I  breast, 

Which  rushes  on  with  foaming  crest' 

Mid  the  wild  breakers'  furious  roar, 

O'envhelmed,  I  sink  to  rise  no  more. 

Shine  out  to  meet  my  troubled  view, 

•N/  je  te  perds,  je  suis  perdu. 

Then  if  T  catch  the  faintest  gleam, 

Onward  I'll  rush  beneath  the  beam, 

And  fast  the  wingrd  waves  shall  bear 

My  form  upon  the  midnight  air, 

•\or  know  my  breast  one  anxious  fear — 

For  1  am  safe  if  thou  art  near. 

*  Written  on  st-dini  the  device  on  a  seal,  of  a  man 
piidinir  a  small  boat,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  a  star,  and 
this  uiottc- :  ''  t>i  je  te  perds.  je  suis  perdu." 


Lead  onward,  then,  while  I  pursue, 
Si  je  te  perds,  je  suis  perdu. 

50  may  the  Star  of  Bethlehem's  beam 
With  holy  lustre  mildly  gleam, 

To  guide  my  soul  with  sacred  light 
Amidst  the  gloom  of  error's  night ; 
Its  cheering  ray  shall  courage  give  — 
Midst  seas  of  doubt  my  hope  shall  live  ; 
Though  dark  and  guilty  fears  may  storrn, 
Bright  peers  above  its  radiant  form  : 
Though  seen  by  al1,  yet  sought  by  few, 

51  je  te  perds,  je  suis  perdu. 

Within  my  heart  the  needle  lies, 

That  upward  points  me  to  the  skies : 

The  tides  may  swell,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  threaten  soon  to  whelm  me  o'er — 

Their  wildest  fury  I  defy  : 

While  on  that  Star  I  keep  my  eye, 

My  tremb'ing  bark  shall  hold  her  way, 

Still  guided  by  its  sacred  ray, 

To  whose  bright  beam  is  homage  due, 

Si  je  fe  perds,  je  suis  perdu. 

Soon  to  illume  those  threatening  skies, 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  shall  rise, 
And  on  my  soul  his  glories  pour: 
Securely  then  my  bark  I'll  moor 
Within  that  port  where  all  are  blest — 
The  haven  of  eternal  rest. 
Shine  onward,  then,  and  guide  me  through 
Sije  te  perds,  je  suis  perdu. 
90 


LYDIA   H.    S1GOURNEY. 


(Born  1791-Diecl  1865). 


LYDIA  HTJNTLEY,  now  Mrs.  SIGOURNEY, 
was  born  on  the  first  of  September,  1791,  in 
Norwich,  Connecticut,  a  town  of  which  she 
has  furnished  an  agreeable  picture  in  her 
Sketch  of  Connecticut  Forty  Years  Since, 
and  of  which  she  says  in  one  of  her  poems, 

Sweetly  wild 

Were  the  scenes  that  charmed  me  when  a  child : 
Rocks,  gray  rocks,  with  their  caverns  dark, 
Leaping  rills,  like  the  diamond  spark, 
Torrent  voices  thundering  by 
When  the  pride  of  the  vernal  floods  swelled  high, 
And  quiet  roofs  like  the  hanging  nest 
Mid  cliffs,  by  the  feathery  foliage  drest. 

Almost  from  infancy  she  was  remarkable 
for  a  love  of  knowledge,  and  facility  in  its 
acquisition.  She  read  with  fluency  when 
but  three  years  of  age,  and  at  eight  she  wrote 
verses  which  attracted  attention  among  the 
acquaintances  of  her  family.  After  comple 
ting  her  education,  at  a  boarding  school  in 
Hartford,  she  associated  herself  with  Miss 
Hyde,  (of  whose  literary  remains  she  was 
subsequently  the  editor,)  and  opened  a  school 
for  girls  at  Norwich,  which  was  continued 
successfully  two  years.  At  the  end  of  this 
period  she  removed  to  Hartford,  where  she 
also  pursued  the  business  of  teaching.  Some 
of  her  early  contributions  to  the  journals  hav 
ing  attracted  the  attention  of  the  late  Daniel 
Wadsworth,*  a  wealthy  and  intelligent  gen 
tleman  of  that  city,  he  induced  her  to  collect 
and  publish  them  in  a  volume,  which  ap 
peared  in  1815,  under  the  modest  title  of 
Moral  Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,  which  very 
well  indicates  its  general  character.  None 
of  i'ts  contents  are  deserving  of  special  com 
mendation,  but  they  are  all  respectable,  and 
the  volume  procured  her  an  accession  of  rep 
utation  whic.  was  probably  of  much  indirect 
advantage. 

In  1819  Miss  Huntle\  was  married  to  Mr. 
Charles  Sigourney,  a  reputable  merchant  and 
hanker  of  Hartford,  and  she  did  not  appear 


*  Mr.  Wadsworth,  to  whose  early  perception  nn  1  libe- 
erai  encouragement  of  the  abilities  of  Miss  Huntiey  \ve 
me  perhaps  indebted  for  their  successful  devotion  to  lit 
erature,  died  at  Hartford  on  the  28th  of  July,  1848— since 
the  above  paragraphs  were  written.  The  Wadsworth  Ath- 
rrittmm  and  the  Wadswortb  Tower  are  pleasing  incmori- 
•1s  to  the  people  of  Hartford  of  his  taste  and  liberality. 


again  as  an  author  until  1822,  when  she  pub 
lished  in  Cambridge  her  Traits  of  the  Abo 
rigines  of  America,  a  descriptive,  historical, 
and  didactic  poem,  in  five  cantos.  It  is  a 
sort  of  poetical  discourse  upon  the  discovery 
and  settlement  of  this  continent,  and  the  du 
ties  of  its  present  masters  toward  the  abo 
rigines,  but  it  is  too  discursive  to  produce 
the  deep  impression  which  might  have  been 
made  with  such  a  display  of  abilities,  learn 
ing,  and  just  opinions.  Its  tone  is  dignified 
and  sustained,  and  it  contains  passages  of 
considerable  power  and  beauty,  though  few 
that  can  be  separated  from  their  contexts 
without  some  injustice  to  the  author.  The 
condition  of  the  Indian  before  the  invasion 
of  the  European  is  thus  forcibly  sketched  in 
the  beginning  of  the  first  canto  : 

O'er  the  vast  regions  of  that  western  world, 
Whose  lofty  mountains  hiding  in  the  clouds, 
Concealed  their  grandeur  and  their  wealth  so  long 
From  European  eyes,  the  Indian  roved 
Free  and  unconquercd.     From  those  frigid  plains 
Struck  with  the  torpor  of  the  arctic  pole, 
To  where  Magellan  lifts  his  torch  to  light 
The  meeting  of  the  waters ;  from  the  shore 
Whose  smooth  green  line  the  broad  Atlantic  laves, 
To  the  rude  borders  of  that  rocky  strait 
Where  haughty  Asia  seems  to  stand  and  gaze 
On  the  new  continent,  the  Indian  reigned 
Majestic  and  alone.     Fearless  he  rose, 
Firm  as  his  mountains ;  like  his  rivers,  wild  ; 
Bold  as  those  lakes  whose  wondrous  chain  controls 
His  northern  coast.     The  forest  and  the  wave 
Gave  him  his  food ;  the  slight  constructed  hut 
Furnished  his  shelter,  and  its  doors  spread  wide 
To  every  wandering  stranger.     There  his  cup, 
His  simple  meal,  his  lowly  couch  of  skins. 
Were  hospitably  shared.     Rude  were  his  toils, 
And  rash  his  daring,  when  he  head  Ion?  rushed 
Down  the  steep  precipice  to  seize  his  prey  ; 
Strong  was  his  arm  to  bend  the  stubborn  bow, 
And  keen  his  arrow.     This  the  bison  knew, 
The  spotted  panther,  the  rough,  shaggy  bear, 
The  wolf  dark  prowling, 'tin-  eye  piercing  lynx, 
The  wild  deer  bounding  through  the  shadowy  glade, 
And  the  swift  eagle,  soaring  high  to  make 
His  nest  among  the  stars.     Clothed  in  their  spoils 
He  dared  the  elements:  with  eye  sedate. 
Breasted  the  wintry  winds ;  o'er  the  white  heads 
Of  angry  torrents  steered  his  rapid  bark 
Light  as  their  foam  ;  mounted  with  tireless  speed 
Those  slippery  dirts,  where  everlasting  snows 
Weave  their  dense  robes ;  or  laid  him  down  to  sl<*^- 

91 


LYDIA    H.   SIGOURNEY. 


Whore  the  dread  thunder  of  the  cataract  lulled 
His  drowsy  sense.     The  dangerous  toils  of  war 
He  sought  and  loved.     Traditions,  and  proud  tales 
Of  other  days,  exploits  of  chieftains  bold, 
Dauntless  and  terrible,  the  warrior's  song, 
The  victor's  triumph — all  conspired  to  raise 

The  martial  spirit 

Oft  the  rude,  wandering  tribes 
Rushed  on  to  battle.     Their  aspiring  chiefs, 
Lofty  and  iron  framed,  with  native  hue 
S'rangely  disguised  in  wild  and  glaring  tints, 
Frowned  like  some  Pictish  king.    The  conflict  raged 
Fearless  and  fierce,  mid  shouts  and  disarray, 
As  the  swift  lightning  urges  its  dire  shafts     [blasts 
Through  clouds  and  darkness,  when  the  warring 
Awaken  midnight.     O'er  the  captive  foe 
T  nsated  vengeance  stormed :  flame  and  slow  wounds 
Racked  the  strong  bonds  of  life  ;  but  the  firm  soul 
Smiled  in  its  fortitude  to  mock  the  rage 
Of  its  tormentors ;  when  the  crisping  nerves 
Were  broken,  still  exulting  o'er  its  pain, 
To  rise  unmurmuring  to  its  father's  shades, 
Where  in  delightful  bowers  the  brave  and  just 

Rest  and  rejoice 

Yet  those  untutored  tribes 

Bound  with  their  stern  resolves  and  savage  deeds 
Some  gentle  virtues ;  as  beneath  the  gloom 
Of  overshadowing  forests  sweet'-.-  springs 

The  unexpected  flower Their  uncultured  hearts 

(ia\e  a  strong  soil  for  friendship,  that  bold  growth 

Of  generous  affection,  changeless,  pure, 

Self  sacrificing,  counting  losses  light, 

And  yielding  life  with  gladness.     By  its  side, 

Like  sister  plant,  sprang  ardent  Gratitude, 

Vivid,  perennial,  braving  winter's  frost 

And  summer's  heat ;  while  nursed  by  the  same  dews, 

Unbounded  reverence  for  the  form  of  age 

Struck  its  deep  root  spontaneous With  pioui  awe 

Their  eyes  up'ifted  sought  the  hidden  path 
)f  the  Great  Spirit.     The  loud  midnight  storm, 
The  rush  of  mighty  waters,  the  deep  roll 
Of  thunder,  gave  his  voice ;  the  golden  sun, 
The  soft  einj'gence  of  the  purple  morn, 
The  gentle  rain  distilling,  was  his  smile, 
Dispensing  good  to  alL.lln  various  forms  arose 
Their  superstitious  homage.     Some  with  blood 
Of  human  sacrifices  sought  to  appease 
That  aimer  which  in  pestilence,  or  dearth, 
Or  famine,  stalked;  and  their  astonished  vales, 
Like  Carthaginian  altars,  frequent  drank 
The  Irorrib'e  libation.     Some,  with  fruits, 
Sweet  flowers,  and  incense  of  their  choicest  herbs, 
Sought  to  propitiate  Him  whose  powerful  hand 
Unseen  sustained  them.     Some  with  mystic,  rites, 
The  ark,  the  orison,  the  paschal  feast, 
Through  dimmerin^  tradition  seemed  to  bear, 
.As  in  s,,me  broken  vase,  the  smothered  coals 
Scattered  from  Jewish  altars. 

Oft  hi-  nylons  which  first  greeted  the  Scan 
dinavian  discoverer  she  says: 

There  Winter  frames 

1  he  boldest  architecture,  rears  strong  towers 
Of  rugged  frostwork,  and  deep  laboring  throws 
A  glas-sv  ]vivement  o'er  rude  tossing  floods. 


Long  near  this  coast  he  lingered,  half  illumed 
By  the  red  gleaming  of  those  fitful  flames 
Which  wrathful  Hecla  through  her  veil  of  snows 
Darts  on  the  ebon  night.     Oft  he  recalled, 
Pensive,  his  simple  home,  ere  the  New  World, 
Enwrapped  in  po'ar  robes,  with  frigid  eye 
Received  him,  and  in  rude  winds  hoarsely  hailed 
Her  earliest  guest.     Thus  the  stern  king  of  storms, 
Swart  Eolus,  bade  his  imprisoned  blasts 
Breathe  dissonant  welcome  to  the  restless  queen, 
Consort  of  Jove,  whose  unaccustomed  step 
Invaded  his  retreat.     The  pilgrim  band 
Amazed  beheld  those  mountain  ramparts  float 
Around  their  coast,  where  hoary  Time  had  toiled, 
Even  from  his  infancy,  to  point  sublime 
Their  pyramids,  and  strike  their  awful  base 
Deep  'neath  the  main.    Say,  Darwin,  Fancy's  son ! 
What  armor  shall  he  choose  who  dares  complete 
Thine  embassy  to  the  dire  kings  who  frown 
Upon  those  thrones  of  frost  1  what  force  compel 
Their  abdication  of  their  favored  realm 
And  rightful  royalty  ?  what  pilot's  eye, 
Unglazed  by  death,  direct  their  devious  course 
(Tremendous  navigation !)  to  allay 
The  fervor  of  the  tropics  ]     Proudly  gleam 
Their  sparkling  masses,  shaming  the  brief  dome 
Which  Russia's  empress  queen  bade  the  chill  boor 
Quench  life's  frail  lamp  to  rear.    Now  they  assume 
The  front  of  old  cathedral  gray  with  years; 
Anon  their  castellated  turrets  glow 
In  high  baronial  pomp ;  then  the  tall  mast 
Of  lofty  frigate,  peering  o'er  the  cloud, 
Attracts  the  eye ;  or  some  fair  island  spreads 
Towns,  towers,  and  mountains,  cradled  in  a  flood 
Of  rainbow  lustre,  changeful  as  the  web 
From  fairy  loom,  and  wild  as  fabled  tales 
Of  Araby. 

At  the  close  of  the  poem  is  a  large  body  of 
curious  and  entertaining  notes,  scarcely  ne 
cessary  for  its  illustration,  but  welcome  as 
a  collection  of  well  written  and  instructive 
miscellanies  upon  the  various  subjects  inci 
dentally  suggested  or  referred  to  in  it. 

In  1824  Mrs.  Sigourney  published  in  prose 
A  Sketch  of  Connecticut  Forty  Years  Since  ; 
in  1827,  Poems  by  the  author  of  Moral  Pieces; 
in  1833,  Poetry  for  Children  ;  in  1 834,  Sketch 
es,  a  collection  of  prose  tales  and  essays;  in 
1835,  Zinzindorf  and  other  Poems;  in  1836, 
Letters  to  Young  Ladies  :  and,  in  1838,  Let 
ters  to  Mothers.  In  the  summer  of  1840  she 
went  to  Europe,  and  after  visiting  many  of 
the  most  interesting  places  in  England,  Scot 
land,  and  France,  and  publishing  a  collection 
of  her  works  in  London,  she  returned  in  the 
following  April  to  Hartford. 

In  1841  appeared  her  Select  Poems,  em 
bracing  those  which  best  satisfied  her  own 
judgment  in  previous  volumes,  and  in  the 
same  year,  with  many  other  pieces,  Poca- 
hontas,  the  best  of  her  long  poems,  and  much 


LYDIA    H.  SIGOURNE\. 


the  best  of  the  many  poetical  compositions 
of  which  the  famous  daughter  of  Powhatan 
has  been  the  subject.     Pucahontas  is  in  the 
Spenserian  measure,  which  is  used  with  con 
siderable  felicity,  as  will  be  seen  from  the 
following  description  of  the  heroine  in  early 
womanhood,  while  the  thoughtful  beauty  for 
which  she  is  celebrated  is  ripening  to  its  most 
controlling  splendor: 
On  sped  the  seasons,  and  the  forest  child 
Was  rounded  to  the  symmetry  of  youth  ; 
While  o'er  her  features  stole,  serenely  mild, 
The  tremb.ing  sanctity  of  woman's  truth, 
Her  modesty,  and  simpleness,  and  grace : 
Yet  those  who  deeper  scan  the  human  face, 
Amid  the  trial  hour  of  fear  or  ruth, 
Might  clearly  read,  upon  its  heaven  writ  scroll, 
That  high  and  firm  reso.ve  which  nerved  the  Roman 

soul. 

The  simple  sports  th  at  charm'dher  childhood's  way, 
Her  greenwood  gambols  mid  the  matted  vines, 
The  curious  glance  of  wild  and  searching  ray, 
Where  innocence  with  ignorance  combines, 
Were  changed  for  deeper  thought's  persuasive  air, 
Or  that  high  port  a  princess  well  might  wear : 
So  fades  the  doubtful  star  when  morning  shines  ; 
So  melts  the  young  dawn  at  the  enkindling  ray, 
And  on  the  crimson  cloud  casts  off  its  mantle  gray. 

Though  Pocahontas  is  the  most  sustained  of 
Mrs.  Sigourney 's  poems,  the  contents  of  this 
volume  do  not  altogether  exhibit  any  deeper 
thought,  or  finer  fancy,  or  larger  command 
of  poetical  language,  than  some  of  her  pro 
ductions  that  had  been  many  years  before  the 
public. 

In  1842  she  published  Pleasant  Memories 
of  Pleasant  Lands,  the  records,  in  prose  and 
verse,  of  impressions  made  during  her  tour 
in  Europe.  Two  years  af.erward  this  was 
followed  by  a  similar  work  under  the  title  of 
Scenes  in  my  Native  Land;  and  in  1846,  by 
Mvrti*,  with  other  Etchings  and  Sketchings. 
The  most  complete  and  elegant  edition  of  her 
poems  was  published  by  Carey  and  Hart,  with 
illustrations  by  Darley,  in  1848. 

Mrs.  Sigourney  has  acquired  a  wider  and 
more  pervading  reputation  than  many  women 
will  receive  in  this  country.  The  times  have 
been  favorable  for  her,  and  the  tone  of  her 
works  such  as  is  most  likely  to  be  accepta 
ble  in  a  primitive  and  pious  community. 
Though  possessing  but  little  constructive 
power,  she  has  a  ready  expression,  and  an 
ear  naiurally  so  sensitive  to  harmony  that  it 
lias  scarcely  been  necessary  for  her  to  study 
the  principles  of  versification  in  order  to 
produce  some  of  its  finest,  effects.  She  sings 


impulsively  from  an  atmosphere  of  affection 
ate,  pious,  and  elevated  sentiment,  rather 
than  from  the  consciousness  of  subjective 
ability.  In  this  respect  she  is  not  to  be  com 
pared  with  some  of  our  female  poets,  who 
exhibit  an  affluence  of  diction,  a  soundness 
of  understanding,  and  a  strength  of  imagina 
tion,  that  justify  the  belief  of  their  capability 
for  the  highest  attainments  in  those  fields  of 
poetical  art  in  which  women  have  yet  been 
distinguished.  Whether  there  is  in  her  na 
ture  the  latent  energy  and  exquisite  suscep 
tibility  that,  under  favorable  circumstances, 
might  have  \varmed  her  sentiment  into  pas 
sion,  and  her  fancy  into  imagination  ;  or 
whether  the  absence  of  any  deep  emotion 
and  creative  power  is  to  be  attributed  to  a 
quietness  of  life  and  satisfaction  of  desires 
that  forbade  the  development  of  the  full  force 
of  her  being ;  or  whether  benevolence  and 
adoration  have  had  the  mastery  of  her  life, 
as  might  seem,  and  led  her  other  faculties 
in  captivity,  we  know  too  little  of  her  secret 
experiences  to  form  an  opinion :  but  the  abil 
ities  displayed  in  Napoleon's  Epitaph  and 
some  other  pieces  in  her  works,  suggest  that 
it  is  only  because  the  flower  has  not  been 
crushed  that  we  have  not  a  richer  perfume. 
The  late  Mr.  Alexander  H.  Everett,  in  a 
reviewal  of  the  works  of-  Mrs.  Sigourney, 
published  a  short  time  before  his  departure 
for  China,  observes  that  "  they  express  with 
great  purity  and  evident  sincerity  the  tender 
affections  which  are  so  natural  to  the  female 
heart,  and  the  lofty  aspirations  after  a  higher 
and  better  state  of  being  which  constitute  the 
truly  ennoblingtind  elevating  principle  in  art 
as  well  as  nature.  Love  and  religion  are  the 
unvarying  elements  of  her  song.. ..If  her  pow 
ers  of  expression  were  equal  to  the  purity  and 
elevation  of  her  habits  of  thought  and  feeling, 
she  would  be  a  female  Milton  or  a  Christian 
Pindar.  But  though  she  does  not  inherit 

'  The  force  and  :xm]ile  pinion  that  the  TUeban  eagles  bear, 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion  through  the  liquid  vaults  of  air,' 

she  nevertheless  manages  language  with  ease 
and  elegance,  and  often  with  much  of  the 
curiosa  felicitas,  that  'refined  felicity'  of 
expression,  which  is,  after  all,  the  principal 
charm  in  poetry.  In  blank  verse  she  is  very 
successful.  The  poems  that  she  has  written 
in  this  measure  have  not  unfrequently  much 
of  the  manner  of  Wordsworth,  and  may  be 
nearly  or  quite  as  highly  relished  by  his  ad 
mirers." 


LYDIA    H.   SIGOURNEY. 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 

Ax  axe  rang  sharply  mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  toward  the  sky  had  towered 
In  unshorn  beauty.     There,  with  vigorous  arm, 
Wrought  a  bold  emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response, 
Bejuiled  the  toil.     "  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 
Such  glorious  trees.   Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall  how  the  linn  earth  groans  !  Remcrnberest  thou 
The  miglitv  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sailed 
So  many  d.iys,  on  toward  the  setting  sun  ] 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compared  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream." — "  Father,  the  brook 
That  by  our  door  went  sinking,  where  I  launched 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round 
Whe.i  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me 
Thau  al    t'.iese  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 
Tuey  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 
My  mother  nurtured  in  the  garden  bound 
Of  our  first  homo,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  go'd,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 
— "  What,  ho  !  my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  toward  her  sire, 
And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contained 
His  noon  repast,  looked  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet,  confiding  smi'e.     «  See,  dearest,  see, 
That  bright  winged  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  red  bird,  echoing  through  the  trees, 
Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear, 
In  far  New  England,  such  a  mellow  tone?" 
— "  I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  arid  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Did  make  me  joyful  as  I  went  to  tend 
My  snowdrops.     I  was  always  laughing  then 
In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now, 
Methinks,  if  I  cou'd  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets."     Slow  night  drew  on, 
And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 
Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 
And  lie,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swollen  waters  of  the  Illinois, 
Dashing  against  their  shores.     Starting,  he  spake  : 
<<  Wife  '  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear] 
'T  was  oven  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 
Carpets  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
LYlit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  sha;,ele>s  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit  home." 
— •'  No,  no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 
Which  mid  the  church,  where  erst  we  paid  ourvows, 
So  tuneful  pea  Yd.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolved  the  i.Iusion."     And  the  gentle  smile 
Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  soothed 
Her  wakin-r  infant,  reassured  his  soul 
That,  whoresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 
And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content  and  placid,  to  his  rest  he  sank  ; 
But  driMms.  tho-v  wi'd  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him.     Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
'If  his  own  native  city — roof  and  spire, 


All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frostwork  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtured  proudly  neighed, 
The  favorite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark;  familiar  doors 
Flew  open ;  greeting  hands  with  his  were  linked 
In  friendship's  grasp ;  he  heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  minu 
Doth  blend  and  brighten :  and  till  morning  roved 
Mid  the  loved  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

How  slow  yon  lonely  vessel  ploughs  the  main  ! 
Amid  the  heavy  billows  now  she  seems 
A  toi.ing  atom  ;  then  from  wave  to  wave 
Leaps  madly,  by  the  tempest  lashed,  or  reels  [wane, 
Half  wrecked  thro'  gulfs  profound.   Moons  wax  and 
But  still  that  patient  traveller  treads  the  deep. 
— I  see  an  icebound  coast  toward  which  she  steers 
With  such  a  tardy  movement,  that  it  seems 
Stern  Winter's  hand  hath  turned  her  keel  to  stone, 
And  sealed  his  victory  on  her  slippery  shrouds. 
— They  land  !  they  land  !  not  like  the  Genoese, 
With  glittering  sword,  and  gaudy  train,  and  eye 
Kindling  with  golden  fancies.     Forth  they  come 
From  their  long  prison,  hardy  forms  that  brave 
The  world's  unkindness,  men  of  hoary  hair, 
Maidens  of  fearless  heart,  and  matrons  grave, 
Who  hush  the  wailing  infant  with  a  g'ance. 
B'eak  Nature's  desolation  wraps  them  round, 
Eternal  forests,  and  unyielding  earth, 
And  savage  men,  who  through  the  thickets  peer 
With  vengeful  arrow.   What  could  lure  their  steps 
To  this  drear  desert  1     Ask  of  him  who  left 
His  father's  home  to  roam  through  Haran's  wilds, 
Distrusting  not  the  guide  who  called  him  forth, 
Nor  doubting,  though  a  stranger,  that  his  seed 
Shou'd  be  as  ocean's  sands.     But  yon  lone  bark 
Hatli  spread  her  parting  sail ;  they  crowd  the  strand, 
Those  few,  lone  pilgrims.     Can  ye  scan  the  wo 
That  wrings  their  bosoms,  as  the  last  frail  link, 
Binding  to  man  and  habitable  earth, 
Is  severed  1     Can  ye  tell  what  pangs  were  there, 
With  keen  regrets;  what  sickness  of  the  heart, 
What  yearnings  o'er  their  forfeit  land  of  birth, 
Their  distant  dear  ones  ]    Long,  with  straining  eve, 
They  watch  the  lessening  speck.  Heard  ye  no  shriek 
Of  anguish,  when  that  bitter  lone'iness 
Sank  down  into  their  bosoms  '?     No  !  they  turn 
Back  to  their  dreary,  famished  huts,  and  pray ! 
Pray,  and  the  ills  that  haunt  this  transient  life 
Fade  into  air.     Up  in  each  girded  breast 
There  sprang  a  rooted  and  mysterious  strength, 
A  loftiness  to  face  a  world  in  arms, 
To  strip  the  pomp  from  sceptres,  and  to  lay 
On  Duty's  sacred  a'tar  the  warm  blood 
Of  s'ain  affections,  should  they  rise  between 
The  soul  and  GOD.     0  ye,  who  proudly  boast, 
In  your  free  veins,  the  blood  of  sires  like  these, 
Look  to  their  lineaments.     Dread  lest  ye  lose 
Their  likeness  in  your  sons.  Shou'd  Mammon  cling 
Too  close  around  your  heart,  or  wealth  beget 
That  bloated  luxury  which  eats  the  core 
From  manly  virtue,  or  the  tempting  world 


LYDIA    H.   SIGOURNEY. 


95 


Make  faint  the  Christian  purpose  in  your  soul, 
Turn  ye  to  Plymouth  rock,  and  where  they  knelt 
Kneel,  and  renew  the  vow  they  breathed  to  God. 


WINTER. 

I  DEEM  thee  not  unlovely,  though  thou  comest 
With  a  stern  visage.     To  the  tuneful  bird, 
The  blushing  floweret,  the  rejoicing  stream, 
Thy  discipline  is  harsh.     But  unto  man 
Mcthinks  thou  hast  a  kindlier  ministry. 
Thy  lengthened  eve  is  full  of  fireside  joys, 
And  deathless  linking  of  warm  heart  to  heart, 
So  that  the  hoarse  storm  passes  by  unheard. 
Earth,  robed  in  white,  a  peaceful  sabbath  holds, 
And  keepeth  si'ence  at  her  Maker's  feet. 
She  ceaseth  from  the  harrowing  of  the  plough, 
And  from  the  harvest  shouting.     Man  should  rest 
Thus  from  his  fevered  passions,  and  exhale 
The  unbreathed  carbon  of  his  festering  thought, 
And  drink  in  holy  hea'th.     As  the  tossed  bark 
Doth  seek  the  shelter  of  some  quiet  bay 
To  trim  its  scattered  cordage,  and  restore 
Its  riven  sai's — so  should  the  toilworn  mind 
Refit  for  Time's  rough  voyage.     Man,  perchance, 
Soured  by  the  world's  sharp  commerce,  or  impaired 
By  the  wild  wanderings  of  his  summer  way, 
Turns  like  a  truant  scholar  to  his  home, 
And  yields  his  nature  to  sweet  influences 
That  purify  and  save.     The  ruddy  boy        [sport, 
Comes  with  his  shouting  schoolmates  from  their 
On  the  smooth,  frozen  lake,  as  the  first  star 
Hangs,  pure  and  cold,  its  twinkling  cresset  forth, 
And,  throwing  off  his  skates  with  boisterous  glee, 
Hastes  to  his  mother's  side.     Her  tender  hand 
Doth  shake  the  snowflakes  from  his  glossy  curls, 
And  draw  him  nearer,  and  with  gentle  voice 
Asks  of  his  lessons,  while  her  lifted  heart 
Solicits  silently  the  Sire  of  heaven 
To  "  b'ess  the  lad."     The  timid  infant  learns 
Better  to  love  its  sire,  and  longer  sits 
Upon  his  knee,  and  with  a  velvet  lip 
Prints  on  his  brow  such  language  as  the  tongue 
Hath  never  spoken.     Come  thou  to  life's  feast 
With  dove  eyed  Meekness,  and  b'and  Charity, 
And  thou  shalt  find  even  Winter's  rugged  blasts 
The  minstrel  teacher  of  thy  well  tuned  soul, 
And  when  the  last  drop  of  its  cup  is  drained — 
Arising  with  a  song  of  praise — go  up 
To  the  eternal  banquet. 


NIAGARA. 

FLOW  on,  for  ever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathomed  and  resistless.     God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thv  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.     And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  him 
Eternal'y — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence — and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe  struck  praise.     Ah  !  who  can  dare 
To  lift  the  insect  trump  of  earthly  hope, 
Or  love,  or  sorrow,  mid  the  peal  sublime 


Of  thy  tremendous  hymn  1    Even  Ocean  shrinks 

Back  from  thy  brotherhood :  and  all  his  waves 

Retire  abashed.     For  he  doth  sometimes  seem 

To  sleep  like  a  spent  laborer,  and  recall 

His  wearied  billows  from  their  vexing  play, 

And  lull  them  to  a  cradle  calm:  but  thou, 

With  everlasting,  undecaying  tide, 

Dost  rest  not,  night  or  day.     The  morning  stars, 

When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  Creation's  birth. 

Heard  thy  deep  anthem  ;  and  those  wrecking  fires, 

That  wait  the  archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 

This  solid  earth,  shall  find  JEHOVAH'S  name 

Graven,  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears, 

Of  thine  unending  volume.     Every  leaf, 

That  lifts  itself  within  thy  wide  domain, 

Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 

Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.     Lo  !  yon  birds 

Do  boldly  venture  near,  and  bathe  their  wing 

Amid  thy  mist  and  foam.     'T  is  meet  for  them 

To  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  and  lightly  stir 

The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapor  wreath, 

For  they  may  sport  unharmed  amid  the  cloud, 

Or  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven, 

Without  reproof.     But  as  for  us,  it  seems 

Scarce  lawful,  with  our  broken  tones,  to  speak 

Famr'iarly  of  thee.     Methinks,  to  tint 

Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point, 

Or  woo  thee  to  the  tablet  of  a  song, 

Were  profanation.     Thou  dost  make  the  soul 

A  wondering  witness  of  thy  majesty, 

But  as  it  presses  with  delirious  joy 

To  pierce  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step, 

And  tame  its  rapture,  with  the  humbling  view 

Of  its  own  nothingness,  bidding  it  stand 

In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible, 

As  if  to  answer  to  its  God  through  thee. 


THE  ALPINE  FLOWERS. 

MEEK  dwellers  mid  yon  terror  stricken  cliffs ! 
With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense  breathing  lips, 
Whence  are  ye  1  Did  some  white  winged  messenger 
On  Mercy's  missions  trust  your  timid  germ 
To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows  1 
Or,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
Did  them  with  tear  drops  nurse  ye  ? — 

— Tree  nor  shrub 

Dare  that  drear  atmosphere ;  no  polar  pine 
Uprears  a  veteran  front ;  yet  there  ye  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick  ribbed  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  brilliant  eyes  to  Him 
Who  bids  you  bloom  unblanched  amid  the  waste 
Of  desolation.     Man,  who,  panting,  toils 
O'er  slippery  steeps,  or,  trembling,  treads  the  verge 
Of  yawning  gulfs,  o'er  which  the  headlong  plunge- 
Is  to  eternity,  looks  shuddering  up, 
And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  -loveliness — 
Fearless,  yet  frail — and,  clasping  his  chill  hand?, 
Blesses  your  pencilled  beauty.     Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain  summits  rushing  on  the  sky, 
And  chaining  the  rapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  you  drooping  to  his  breast, 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost  winged  gale 
Anl  freer  dreams  of  heaven. 


LYDIA   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


N  A  V  (  )  L  K  O  X'  S  E  P  I  T  APR. 


sh'.no  out,  and  there  we  .«nw  tl.e  face  of 
in-,  eliaracterl**.  unintcribttl." 


A  vii  who  shall  write  thine  epitaph,  thou  man 
Of  mystery  and  might  !     Shall  orphan  hands 
Inscribe  it  with  their  father's  broken  swords'? 
Or  the  wa  m  trickling  of  the  widow's  tear 
Channel  it  slowly  mid  the  rugged  rock, 
As  the  keen  torture  of  the  water  drop        [ghosts 
Doth  wear  the  sentenced  hr.iin  1      Shall  countless 
Arise  I'.-.MII  hade-;,  and  in  luri.l  flame 
With  shad  nvy  linger  trace  thine  effigy, 
Who  s  ,'iit  the.rn  to  their  audit  unannealed, 
\nd  with  hut  that  brief  space  fir  shrift  of  prayer 
Given  at  tin-  cannon's  mouth  1    Thou,  who  didst  sit 
Like  eag!e  on  the  apex  of  the  globe, 
And  bear  the  murmur  of  its  conquered  tribes, 
As  chirp  the  weak  voiced  nations  of  the  grass, 
Why  art  thou  sepulchred  in  yon  far  isle, 
1  on  little  speck,  which  scarce  the  mariner 
Descries  mid  ocean's  foam  1    Thou,  who  didst  hew 
A  pathway  for  thy  host  above  the  cloud, 
Guiding  their  footsteps  o'er  the  frostwork  crown 
Ot  the  throned  Alps,  why  dost  thou  sleep  unmarked, 
Even  by  such  slight  memento  as  the  hind 
Carves  on  his  own  coarse  tombstone  1     Bid  the 

throng 

WTho  poured  thee  incense,  as  Olympian  Jove, 
And  breathed  thy  thunders  on  the  battle  field, 
Return,  and  rear  thy  monument.     Those  forms 
O'er  the  wide  valleys  of  red  slaughter  spread, 
From  pole  to  tropic,  and  from  zone  to  zone, 
Heed  n  >t  thy  clarion  call.     But  should  they  rise, 
As  in  the  vision  that  the  prophet  saw, 
And  each  dry  bone  its  severed  fellow  find, 
Piling  their  pillared  dust  as  erst  they  gave 
Their  souls  for  thee,  the  wondering  stars  mightdeem 
A  second  time  the  puny  pride  of  man 
Did  creep  by  stealth  upon  its  Babel  stairs, 
To  dwe'l  with  them.     But  here  unwept  thou  art, 
Like  a  dead  lion  in  his  thicket  lair, 
With  neither  living  man  nor  spirit  condemned 
To  write  thine  epitaph.     Invoke  the  climes, 
Who  served  as  playthings  in  thy  desperate  game 
Of  mad  ambition,  or  their  treasures  strewed 
Till  meagre  Famine  on  their  vitals  preved, 
To  pay  the  reckoning.     France!  who  gave  so  free 
Thy  life  stream  t  »  his  cup  of  wine,  and  saw 
That  purple  vintage  shed  over  ha'f  the  earth, 
Wn'/r  the  first  lint'.,  if  than  tmxt  blond  to  spare. 
Thou,  too,  whose  pride  did  deck  dead  Caesar's  tomb, 
And  rh-iiit  high  requiem  o'er  the  tyrant  hand 
Who  had  their  birth  with  thee,  lend  us  thine  arts 
Of  sculpture  and  of  classic  eloquence, 
To  grace  his  obsequies  at  whose  dark  frown 
Thin*  ancient  spirit  ((nailed,  and  to  the  list 
)f  mutilated  kings,  who  gleaned  their  meat 
TVeath  A  -.jug's  table,  add  the  name  of  Rome. 
-  Turn.  Austria!   iron  browed  and  stern  of  heart, 
And  on  his  monument,  to  whom  thou  gavest 
In  anger,  battle,  and  in  craft  a  bride, 
Grave  -  Auster'itz,"  and  fiercely  turn  away. 
—As  the  reined  war  h:)rse  snulls  the  trumpet  blast, 
Rouse  Prussia  fijtii  h«r  trance  with  Jena's  name 


And  bid  her  witness  to  that  fame  which  soars 
O'er  him  of  Macedon,  and  shames  the  vaunt 
Of  Scandinavia's  madman.     From  the  shades 
Of  lettered  ease,  oh,  Germany  !  come  forth 
With  pen  of  fire,  and  from  thy  troubled  scroll, 
Such  as  thou  spreadst  at  Leipsic,  gather  tints 
Of  deeper  character  than  bold  Romance 
Hath  ever  imaged  in  her  wildest  dream. 
Or  History  trusted  to  her  sybil  leaves. 
— Hail,  lotus  crowned  !  in  thy  green  childhood  fed 
By  stiff  necked  Pharaoh  and  the  shepherd  kings, 
Hast  thou  no  tale  of  him  who  drenched  thy  sands 
At  Jaffa  and  Aboukir !  when  the  flight 
Of  rushing  souls  went  up  so  strange  and  strong 
To  the  accusing  Spirit  ? — Glorious  isle  ! 
Whose  thrice  enwreathed  chain,  Promethean  like, 
Did  bind  him  to  the  fatal  rock,  we  ask 
Thy  deep  memento  for  this  marble  tomb. 
— Ho !  fur  clad  Russia  !  with  thy  spear  of  frost, 
Or  with  thy  winter  mocking  Cossack's  lance, 
Stir  the  cold  memories  of  thy  vengeful  brain, 
And  give  the  last  line  of  our  epitaph. 
— But  there  was  silence :  for  no  sceptred  hand 
Received  the  challenge.     From  the  misty  deep, 
Rise,  island  spirits !  like  those  sisters  three 
Who  spin  and  cut  the  trembling  thread  of  life  — 
Rise  on  your  coral  pedestals,  and  write 
That  eulogy  which  haughtier  climes  deny. 
Come,  for  ye  lulled  him  in  your  matron  arms, 
And  cheered  his  exile  with  the  name  of  king, 
And  spread  that  curtained  couch  which  none  disturb, 
Come,  twine  some  trait  of  househo'd  tenderness, 
Some  tender  leaflet,  nursed  with  Nature's  tears, 
Around  this  urn. — But  Corsica,  who  rocked 
His  cradle  at  Ajaccio,  turned  awuy  ; 
And  tiny  E  ba  in  the  Tuscan  wave 
Threw  her  slight  annal  with  the  haste  of  feu'r; 
And  rude  Helena,  sick  at  heart,  and  gray 
'Neath  the  Atlantic's  smiting,  bade  the  moon, 
With  silent  finger,  point  the  traveller's  gaze 
To  an  unhonored  tomb. — Then  Earth  arose, 
That  blind  old  empress,  on  her  crumb  ing  throno, 
And  to  the  echoed  question,  "  Who  shall  write 
NAPOLEOV'S  epitaph  1"  as  one  who  broods 
O'er  unforgiven  injuries,  answered,  "  None  !' 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polished 

brow, 

And  dashed  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip.     He  touched  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded.     Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
For  ever.     There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  si'.ence.     But  there  beamed  a  smile, 
So  fixed,  so  holy,  from  that,  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.     He  dared  not  steal 
The  signet  ring  of  Heaven. 


LYDIA   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


MONODY  ON  MRS.  HEMANS. 

N  \  T  i-  u  K  doth  mourn  for  thec.  There  comes  a  voice 
From  her  far  so:itudes,  as  though  the  winds 
Murmured  low  dirges,  or  the  waves  complained. 
Even  the  meek  plant,  that  never  sang  hefore, 
Save  one  brief  requiem,  when  its  b'ossoms  fell, 
Seems  through  its  drooping  leaves  to  sigh  for  thee, 
As  for  a  florist  dead.     The  ivy,  wreathed 
Round  the  gray  turrets  of  a  buried  race, 
And  the  proud  palm  trees,  that  like  princes  rear 
Their  diadems  'neath  Asia's  sultry  sky, 
Blend  with  their  ancient  lore  thy  hallowed  name. 
Thy  music,  like  baptismal  dew,  did  make 
Whate'er  it  touched  more  holy.     The  pure  shell, 
Pressing  its  pearly  lip  to  Ocean's  floor ; 
The  cloistered  chambers,  where  the  seagods  sleep  ; 
And  the  unfathomed,  melancholy  Main, 
Lament  for  thee  through  all  the  sounding  deeps. 
Hark  !   from  sky  piercing  Himmaleh,  to  where 
Snowdon  doth  weave  his  coronet  of  cloud — 
From  the  scathed  pine  tree,  near  the  red  man's  hut, 
To  where  the  everlasting  Banian  builds 
Its  vast  columnar  temple,  comes  a  wail 
For  her  who  o'er  the  dim  cathedral's  arch, 
The  quivering  sunbeam  on  the  cottage  wall, 
Or  the  sere  desert,  poured  the  lofty  chant 
And  ritual  of  the  muse :  who  found  the  link 
That  joins  mute  Nature  to  ethereal  mind, 
And  make  that  link  a  me'ody.     The  vales 
Of  glorious  Albion  heard  thy  tuneful  fame,    [hards 
And  those  green  cliffs,  where  erst  the  Cambrian 
Swept  their  indignant  lyres,  exulting  tell 
How  oft  thy  fairy  foot  in  childhood  climbed 
Their  rude,  romantic  heights.     Yet  was  the  couch 
Of  thy  last  s' umber  in  yon  verdant  isle 
Of  song,  and  eloquence,  and  ardent  soul — 
Which,  loved  of  lavish  skies,  though  banned  by  fate, 
Seemed  as  a  type  of  thine  own  varied  lot, 
The  crowned  of  Genius,  and  the  child  of  Wo. 
For  at  thy  breast  the  ever  pointed  thorn 
Did  gird  itself  in  secret,  mid  the  gush 
Of  such  unstained,  sublime,  impassioned  song, 
That  angels,  poising  on  some  silver  c'oud, 
Might  listen  mid  the  errands  of  the  skies, 
And  linger  all  unblamed.     How  tenderly 
Dolh  Nature  draw  her  curtain  round  thy  rest, 
And,  like  a  nurse,  with  finger  on  her  lip, 
Watch  that  no  step  disturb  thee,  and  no  hand 
Profane  thy  sacred  harp.     Methinks  she  waits 
Thy  wakina,  as  some  cheated  mother  hangs 
O'er  the  pale  babe,  whose  spirit  Death  hath  stolen, 
And  laid  it  dreaming  on  the  lap  of  Heaven. 
Said  we  that  thou  art  dead  !      We  dare  not.     No. 
For  every  mountain,  stream,  or  shady  dell, 
Where  thy  rich  echoes  linger,  claim  thee  still, 
Their  own  undying  one.     To  thee  was  known 
Alike  the  language  of  the  fragile  flower 
And  of  the  burning  stars.     God  taught  it  thee. 
So,  from  thy  living  intercourse  with  man, 
Thou  sha't  not  pass,  until  the  weary  earth 
Drops  her  last  gem  into  the  doomsday  flame. 
Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  seat  with  that  blest  choir, 
Whose  harmonies  thy  spirit  learned  so  well 
Through  this  low,  darkened  casement,  and  so  long 


Interpreted  for  us.     Why  should  we  say 
Farewell  to  t'.iee,  since  every  unborn  age 
Shall  mix  thee  with  its  household  charities  ? 
The  hoary  sire  shall  bow  his  deafened  ear, 
And  greet  thy  sweet  words  with  his  henison  • 
The  mother  shrine  thee  -as  a  vestal  flame 
In  the  lone  temple  of  her  sanctity  ; 
And  the  young  child  who  takes  thee  by  the  hand, 
Shall  travel  with  a  surer  step  to  heaven. 


THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON.* 

LONG  hast  thou  slept  unnoted.     Nature  stole 
In  her  soft  ministry  around  thy  bed, 
Spreading  her  vernal  tissue,  violet  gemmed, 
And  pearled  with  dews. 

She  bade  bright  Summer  bring 
Gifts  of  frankincense,  with  sweet  song  of  birds, 
And  Autumn  cast  his  reaper's  coronet 
Down  at  thy  feet,  and  stormy  Winter  speak 
Stern'y  of  man's  neglect.     But  now  we  come 
To  do  thee  homage — mother  of  our  chief! 
Fit  homage — such  as  honoreth  him  who  pays. 

Methinks  we  see  thee — as  in  olden  time — 
Simple  in  garb — majestic  and  serene, 
Unmoved  by  pomp  or  circumstance — in  truth 
Inflexible,  and  with  a  Spartan  zeal 
Repressing  vice  and  making  folly  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  deem  it  woman's  part  to  waste 
Life  in  inglorious  sloth — to  sport  a  while 
Amid  the  flowers,  or  on  the  summer  wave; 
Then  fleet,  like  the  ephemeron,  away, 
Building  no  temple  in  her  children's  hearts, 
Save  to  the  vanity  and  pride  of  life 
Which  she  had  worshipped. 

For  the  might  that  clothed 
The  «  Pater  Patrire" — for  the  glorious  deeds 
That  make  Mount  Vernon's  tomb  a  Mecca  shrine 
For  all  the  earth — what  thanks  to  thee  are  due, 
Who,  mid  his  elements  of  being,  wrought, 
We  know  not — Heaven  can  tell ! 

Rise,  sculptured  pile  f 
And  show  a  race  unborn  who  rests  below, 
And  say  to  mothers  what  a  ho'y  charge 
Is  theirs — with  what  a  kingly  power  their  love 
Might  rule  the  fountains  of  the  newborn  mind. 
Warn  thorn  to  wake  at  early  dawn,  and  sow 
Good  seed  before  the  World  hath  sown  her  tares  ; 
Nor  in  their  toil  decline — that  angel  bands 
May  put  the  sickle  in,  and  reap  for  God, 
And  gather  to  his  garner.     Ye,  who  stand, 
With  thril  ing  breast,  to  view  her  trophied  praise, 
Who  nobly  reared  Virginia's  godlike  chief— 
Ye,  whose  last  thought  upon  your  nightly  couch, 
Whose  first  at  waking,  is  your  cradled  son, 
What  though  no  high  ambition  prompts  to  rear 
A  second  WASHINGTON,  or  leave  your  name 
Wrought  out  in  marble  with  a  nation's  tears 
Of  deathless  gratitude— yet  may  you  raise 
A  monument  above  the  stars — a  soul 
Led  by  your  teachings  and  your  prayers  to  God 

*  On  laying  the  comer  stone  of  her  monument  at  Fred- 

i    ericksburg,  Virginia. 


LYDIA   H.  SIGOURNEY. 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH. 

IT  stood  among  the  chestnuts — its  white  spire 
And  slender  turrets  pointing  where  man's  heart 
Should  oftener  turn.     Up  went  the  wooded  cliffs, 
Abruptly  beautiful,  ahove  its  head, 
Shutting  with  verdant  screen  the  waters  out, 
That  just  beyond,  in  deep  sequestered  vale, 
Wrought  out  their  rocky  passage.    Clustering  roofs 
And  varying  sounds  of  village  industry 

Swelled  from  its  margin 

But  all  around 

The  solitary  dell,  where  meekly  rose 
That  consecrated  church,  there  was  no  voice 
Save  what  still  Nature  in  her  worship  breathes, 
And  that  unspoken  lore  with  which  the  dead 

Do  commune  with  the  living And  methought 

How  sweet  it  were,  so  near  the  sacred  house 
Where  we  had  heard  of  Christ,  and  taken  his  yoke, 
And  sabbath  after  sabbath  gathered  strength 
To  do  his  will,  thus  to  lie  down  and  rest, 
Close  'neath  the  shadow  of  its  peaceful  walls ; 
And  when  the  hand  doth  moulder,  to  lift  up 
Our  simple  tombstone  witness  to  that  faith 
Which  can  not  die. 

Heaven  bless  thee,  lonely  church, 
And  daily  mayst  thou  warn  a  pilgrim-band 
From  toil,  from  cumbrance,  and  from  strife  to  flee, 
And  drink  the  waters  of  eternal  life : 
Still  in  sweet  fellowship  with  trees  and  skies, 
Friend  both  of  earth  and  heaven,  devoutly  stand 
To  guide  the  living  and  to  guard  the  dead. 


SOLITUDE. 

DEEP  solitude  I  sought.     There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day, 
While,  towering  near,  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  background  'gainst  the  sky.    Thither  I  went, 
And  bade  my  spirit  taste  that  lonely  fount. 
For  which  it  long  had  thirsted  mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world. — I  thought  to  be 
There  without  witness :  but  the  violet's  eye 
Looked  up  to  greet  me,  the  fresh  wild  rose  smiled, 
A  nd  the  young  pendent  vine  flower  kissed  my  cheek. 
There  were  glad  voices  too  :  the  garrulous  brook, 
Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 
Its  history.     Up  came  the  singing  breeze, 
And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 
Responsive,  every  one.     Even  busy  life 
Woke  in  that  dell :  the  dexterous  spider  threw 
From  spray  to  spray  the  silver-tissued  snare. 
The  thrifty  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 
The  rifled  grain,  toiled  toward  her  citadel. 
To  her  sweet  hive  went  forth  the  loaded  bee, 
While,  from  her.  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 
•Sang  to  her  nurslings. 

Yet  I  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone  and  silent  in  thy  realm, 
Spirit  of  life  and  love  !     It  might  not  be  : 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains, 
Save  what  man  makes,  when  in  his  selfish  breast 
He  locks  his  joy,  and  shuts  out  others'  grief. 
Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  in  this  wide  world 
Without  a  witness  :  even  the  desert  place 


Speaketh  thy  name ;  the  simple  flowers  and  streams 
Are  social  and  benevolent,  and  he 
Who  holdeth  converse  in  their  language  pure, 
Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  day, 
Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  dressed, 
His  Maker  there,  to  teach  his  listening  heart. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  ALLEGANY. 

I  WAS  a  pensive  pilgrim  at  the  foot 
Of  the  crowned  Allegany,  when  he  wrapped 
His  purple  mantle  gloriously  around, 
And  took  the  homage  of  the  princely  hills, 
And  ancient  forests,  as  they  bowed  them  down, 
Each  in  his  order  of  nobility. 
— And  then,  in  glorious  pomp,  the  sun  retired 
Behind  that  solemn  shadow :   and  his  train 
Of  crimson,  and  of  azure,  and  of  gold, 
Went  floating  up  the  zenith,  tint  on  tint, 
And  ray  on  ray,  till  all  the  concave  caught 
His  parting  benediction. 

But  the  glow 

Faded  to  twilight,  and  dim  evening  sank 
In  deeper  shade,  and  there  that  mountain  stood 
In  awful  state,  like  dread  embassador          [severe 
'Tween  earth  and  heaven.    Methought  it  frowned 
Upon  the  world  beneath,  and  lifted  up 
The  accusing  forehead  sternly  toward  the  sky, 
To  witness  'gainst  its  sins :  and  is  it  meet 
For  thee,  swoln  out  in  cloud-capped  pinnacle, 
To  scorn  thine  own  original,  the  dust 
That,  feebly  eddying  on  the  angry  winds, 
Doth  sweep  thy  base  1     Say,  is  it  meet  for  thee, 
Robing  thyself  in  mystery,  to  impeach 
This  nether  sphere,  from  whence  thy  rocky  root 
Draws  depth  and  nutriment  ? 

But  lo  !  a  star, 

The  first  meek  herald  of  advancing  night, 
Doth  peer  above  thy  summit,  as  some  babe 
Might  gaze  with  brow  of  timid  innocence 
Over  a  giant's  shoulder.     Hail,  lone  star  ! 
Thou  friendly  watcher  o'er  an  erring  world, 
Thine  uncondemning  glance  doth  aptly  teach 
Of  that  untiring  mercy,  which  vouchsafes 
Thee  light,  and  man  salvation. 

Not  to  mark 

And  treasure  up  his  follies,  or  recount 
Their  secret  record  in  the  court  of  Heaven, 
Thou   com'st.     Methinks  thy  tenderness  would 
With  trembling  mantle,  his  infirmities,      [shroud 
The  purest  natures  are  most  pitiful ; 
But  they  who  feel  corruption  strong  within 
Do  launch  their  darts  most  fiercely  at  the  trace 
Of  their  own  image,  in  another's  breast. 
— So  the  wild  bull,  that  in  some  mirror  spies 
His  own  mad  visage,  furiously  destroys 
The  frail  reflector.     But  thou,  stainless  star! 
Shalt  stand  a  watchman  on  Creation's  walls, 
While  race  on  race  their  little  circles  mark, 
And  slumber  in  the  tomb.     Still  point  to  all, 
Who  through  this  evening  scene  may  wander  on 
And  from  yon  mountain's  cold  magnificence 
Turn  to  thy  milder  beauty — point  to  all, 
The  eternal  love  that  nightly  sends  thee  forth, 
A  silent  teacher  of  its  boundless  love. 


LYDIA   H.   8IGOURNEY. 


99 


THE   INDIAN  GIRL'S  BURIAL. 

A  VOICE  upon  the  prairies,  - 

A  cry  of  woman's  wo, 
That  mingleth  with  the  autumn  blast 

All  fitfully  and  low  ; 
It  is  a  mother's  wailing : 

Hath  earth  another  tone 
Like  that  with  which  a  mother  mourns 

Her  lost,  her  only  one ! 

Pale  faces  gather  round  her, 

They  marked  the  storm  swell  high 
That  rends  and  wrecks  the  tossing  soul, 

But  their  cold,  blue  eyes  are  dry. 
Pale  faces  gaze  upon  her, 

As  the  wild  winds  caught  her  moan, 
But  she  was  an  Indian  mother, 

So  she  wept  her  tears  alone. 

Long  o'er  that  wasted  idol 

She  watched,  and  toiled,  and  prayed, 
Though  every  dreary  dawn  revealed 

Some  ravage  death  had  made, 
Till  the  fleshless  sinews  started, 

And  hope  no  opiate  gave, 
And  hoarse  and  hollow  grew  her  voice, 

An  echo  from  the  grave. 

She  was  a  gentle  creature, 

Of  raven  eye  and  tress ; 
And  dovelike  were  the  tones  that  breathed 

Her  bosom's  tenderness, 
Save  when  some  quick  emotion 

The  warm  blood  strongly  sent, 
To  revel  in  her  olive  cheek, 

So  richly  eloquent. 

I  said  Consumption  smote  her, 

And  the  healer's  art  was  vain, 
But  she  was  an  Indian  maiden, 

So  none  deplored  her  pain ; 
None,  save  that  widowed  mother, 

Who  now.  by  her  open  tomb, 
Is  writhing,  like  the.  smitten  wretch 

Whom  judgment  marks  for  doom. 

Alas  !  that  lowly  cabin, 

That  bed  beside  the  wall, 
That  seat  beneath  the  mantling  vine, 

They're  lone  and  empty  all. 
What  hand  shall  pluck  the  tall  green  corn, 

That  ripeneth  on  the  plain  ] 
Since  she  for  whom  the  board  was  spread 

Must  ne'er  return  again. 

Rest,  rest,  thou  Indian  maiden, 

Nor  let  thy  murmuring  shade 
Grieve  that  those  pale  browed  ones  with  scorn 

Thy  burial  rite  surveyed  ; 
There's  many  a  king  whose  funeral 

A  black  robed  realm  shall  see, 
For  whom  no  tear  of  grief  is  shed 

Like  that  which  falls  for  thee. 

Yea,  rest  thee,  forest  maiden, 

Beneath  thy  native  tree  ! 
The  proud  may  boast  their  little  day, 

Then  sink  to  dust  like  thee  : 


But  there's  many  a  one  whose  funeral 
With  nodding  plumes  may  be, 

Whom  Nature  nor  affection  mourn 
As  here  they  mourn  for  thee. 


INDIAN  NAMES. 

YE  say  they  all  have  passed  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave  ; 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanished 

From  off  the  crested  wave  ; 
That,  mid  the  forests  where  they  roamed, 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shout: 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters — 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'T  is  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  Ocean's  surge  is  curled ; 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world  ; 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  west ; 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  conelike  cabins, 

That  clustered  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  disappeared,  as  withered  leaves 

Before  the  autumn's  gale  : 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore, 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  her  young  renown  ; 
Connecticut  has  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  its  rocky  heart, 
And  Allegany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  tofty  chart. 
Monadnock,  on  his  forehead  hoar, 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust : 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


A  BUTTERFLY  ON  A  CHILD'S  GRA\E. 

A  BUTTERFLY  basked  on  a  baby's  grave, 

Where  a  lily  had  chanced  to  grow  : 
"  Why  art  thou  here,  with  thy  gaudy  dye, 
When  she  of  the  blue  and  sparkling  eye 

Must  sleep  in  the  churchyard  low  ?" 
Then  it  lightly  soared  through  the  sunny  air. 

And  spoke  from  its  shining  track : 
« I  was  a  worm  till  I  won  my  wings, 
And  she  whom  thou  mourn' st,  like  a  seraph  sings 

Wouldst  thou  call  the  blest  one  back1" 


100 


LYDIA   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


MONODY  ON  THE  LATE  DANIEL  WADS- 
WORTH. 

Tnor,  of  a  noble  name, 
That  gave  in  days  of  old 
Shepherds  to  Zion's  fold, 
And  chiefs  of  power  and  fame, 
When  Washington  in  times  of  peril  drew  [true — 
Forth  in  their  country's  cause  the  valiant  and  the 
Thou,  who  so  many  a  lonely  home  didst  cheer, 

Counting  thy  wealth  a  sacred  trust — 
With  shuddering  heart  the  knell  we  hear 
That  tells  us  thou  art  dust. 

Friend  !  we  have  let  thee  fall 
Into  the  grave,  and  have  not  gathered  all 
The  wisdom  thou  didst  love  to  pour 
From  a  full  mind's  exhaustless  store: 

Ah,  we  were  slow  of  heart, 
To  reap  the  rapid  moments  ere  their  flight — 
Or  thou,  perchance,  to  us  hadst  taught  the  art 
Heaven's  gifts  to  use  aright — 

Amid  infirmity  and  pain 

Time's  golden  sands  to  save  ; 
WTith  upright  heart  the  truth  maintain.; 
To  frown  on  wiles  the  life  that  stain, 

Making  the  soul  their  slave ; 
To  joy  in  all  things  beautiful,  and  trace         [face. 
The  slightest  smile,  or  shade,  that  mantled  Nature's 

Yes,  we  were  slow  of  heart,  and  dreamed 

To  see  thee  still  at  wintry  tide,  [beside, 

With  page  of  knowledge  spread,  thy  pleasant  hearth 
When  to  thy  clearer  sight  there  gleamed 
The  beckoning  hand,  the  waiting  eye, 
The  smile  of  welcome  through  the  sky, 
Of  her  who  was  thine  angel  here  below,  [to  go. 
And  unto  whom  'twas  meet  that  thou  shouldst  long 

Friend  !  thou  didst  give  command 
To  him  who  dealt  thy  soul  its  hallowed  bread, 
As  by  thy  suffering  bed 
He  took  his  faithful  stand, 

Not  to  pronounce  thy  praise  when  thou  wert  dead  : 
So,  though  impulsive  promptings  came, 
Warm  o'er  his  lips  like  rushing  flame, 
He  struggled  and  o'ercarne. 

Even  when,  in  sad  array, 

From  thy  lone  home,  where  summer  roses  twined, 
The  funeral  weepers  held  their  way 

Thy  sahle  hearse  behind  : 
When  in  the  holy  house,  where  thou  so  long 
Hadst  worshipped  with  the  sabbath  throng, 

Thy  venerated  form  was  laid, 
While  mournful  dirges  rose,  and  solemn  prayers 
were  made. 

Oh  friend  !  thou  didst  o'ermaster  well 
The  pride  of  wealth,  and  multiply 
Good  deeds  not  done  for  the  good  word  of  men, 
But  for  Heaven's  judging  pen, 
And  clear,  omniscient  eye; 
And  surely  where  the  "just  made  perfect"  dwell, 

Earth's  voice  of  highest  eulogy 
Is  like  the  bubble  of  the  far-off  sea — 

A  sigh  upon  the  grave,  [wave. 

Scarce  moving  the  frail  flowers  that  o'er  its  surface 


Yet  think  not,  friend  revered, 

Oblivion  o'er  thy  name  shall  sweep, 
While  the  fair  domes  that  thou  hast  reared 

Their  faithful  witness  keep. 
The  fairy  cottage  in  its  robe  of  flowers — 
The  classic  turrets,  where  the  stranger  strays 
Amid  the  pencil's  tints  and  scrolls  of  other  days, 
And  yon  gray  tower  on  Montevideo's  crest, 
Where,  mid  Elysian  haunts  and  bowers, 
Thou  didst  rejoice  to  see  all  people  blest : 

These  chronicle  thy  name — 
And  ah,  in  many  a  darkened  cot 
Thou  hast  a  tear-embalmed  fame 
That  can  not  be  forgot ! 

But  were  all  dumb  beside, 
The  lyre  that  thou  didst  wake,  the  lone  heart  thou 

didst  guide, 

In  early  youth,  with  fostering  care — 
These  may  not  in  cold  silence  bide: 
For  were  it  so,  the  stones  on  which  we  tread 
Would  find  a  tongue  to  chide 

Ingratitude  so  dread  ! 

No — till  the  fading  gleam  of  memory's  fires 
From  the  warm  altar  of  the  heart  expires, 
Leave  thou  the  much  indebted  free 

To  speak  what  truth  inspires, 
And  fondly  mourn  for  thee. 


ADVERTISEMENT  OF  A  LOST  DAY. 

LOST  !  lost !  lost ! 

A  gem  of  countless  price, 
Cut  from  the  living  rock,  ' 

And  graved  in  paradise : 
Set  round  with  three  times  eight 

Large  diamonds,  clear  and  bright, 
And  each  with  sixty  smaller  ones, 

All  changeful  as  the  light. 

Lost — where  the  thoughtless  throng 

In  Fashion's  mazes  wind, 
Where  trilleth  Folly's  song, 

Leaving  a  sting  behind  : 
Yet  to  my  hand  'twas  given 

A  golden  harp  to  buy, 
Such  as  the  white-robed  choir  attune 

To  deathless  minstrelsy. 

Lost !  lost !  lost ! 

I  feel  all  search  is  vain ; 
That  gem  of  countless  cost 

Can  ne'er  be  mine  again : 
I  offer  no  reward — 

For  till  these  heart-strings  sever, 
I  know  that  Heaven-entrusted  gift 

Is  reft  away  for  ever. 

But  when  the  sea  and  land 

Like  burning  scroll  have  fled, 
I'll  see  it  in  His  hand 

Who  judgeth  quick  and  dead, 
And  when  of  scathe  and  loss 

That  man  can  ne'er  repair, 
The  dread  inquiry  meets  my  soul, 

What  shall  it  answei  there  1 


LYDIA    H.   SIGOURNEY 


101 


FAREWELL   TO  A  RURAL  RESIDENCE. 

How  beautiful  it  stands, 

Behind  its  elm  tree's  screen, 
With  simple  attic  cornice  crowned, 

All  graceful  and  serene ! 
Most  sweet,  yet  sad,  it  is 

Upon  yon  scene  to  gaze, 
And  list  its  inborn  melody, 

The  voice  of  other  days : 

For  there,  as  many  a  year 

Its  varied  chart  unrolled, 
I  hid  me  in  those  quiet  shades, 

And  called  the  joys  of  old ; 
I  called  them,  and  they  came 

When  vernal  buds  appeared, 
Or  whore  the  vine  clad  summer  bower 

Its  temple  roof  upreared, 

Or  where  the  o'erarching  grove 

Spread  forth  its  copses  green, 
While  eyebright  and  asclepias  reared 

Their  untrained  stalks  between ; 
And  the  squirrel  from  the  boughs 

His  broken  nuts  let  fall, 
And  the  merry,  merry  little  birds 

Sing  at  his  festival. 

Yon  old  forsaken  nests 

Returning  spring  shall  cheer, 
And  thence  the  unfledged  robin  breathe 

His  greeting  wild  and  clear  ; 
And  from  yon  clustering  vine, 

That  wreathes  the  casement  round, 
The  humming-birds'  unresting  wing 

Send  forth  a  whirring  sound ; 

And  where  alternate  springs 

The  lilach's  purple  spire 
Fast  by  its  snowy  sister's  side ; 

Or  where,  with  wing  of  fire, 
The  kingly  oriole  glancing  went 

Amid  the  foliage  rare, 
Shall  many  a  group  of  children  tread, 

But  mine  will  not  be  there. 

Fain  would  I  know  what  forms 

The  mastery  here  shall  keep, 
What  mother  in  yon  nursery  fair 

Rock  her  young  babes  to  sleep  : 
Yet  blessings  on  the  hallowed  spot, 

Though  here  no  more  I  stray, 
And  blessings  on  the  stranger  babes 

Who  in  those  halls  shall  play. 

Heaven  bless  you,  too,  my  plants, 

And  every  parent  bird 
That  here,  among  the  woven  boughs, 

Above  its  young  hath  stirred. 
I  kiss  your  trunks,  ye  ancient  trees, 

That  often  o'er  my  head 
The  blossoms  of  your  flowery  spring 

In  fragrant  showers  have  shed. 


Thou,  too,  of  changeful  mood, 

I  thank  thee,  sounding  stream. 
That  blent  thine  echo  with  my  thought. 

Or  woke  my  musing  dream. 
I  kneel  upon  the  verdant  turf, 

For  sure  my  thanks  are  due 
To  moss-cup  and  to  clover  leaf, 

That  gave  me  draughts  of  dew. 

To  each  perennial  flower, 

Old  tenants  of  the  spot, 
The  broad  leafed  lily  of  the  vale, 

And  the  meek  forget-me-not ; 
To  every  daisy's  dappled  brow, 

To  every  violet  blue, 
Thanks  !  thanks  !  may  each  returning  year 

Your  changeless  bloom  renew. 

Praise  to  our  Father-God, 

High  praise,  in  solemn  lay, 
Alike  for  what  his  hand  hath  given, 

And  what  it  takes  away  : 
And  to  some  other  loving  heart 

May  all  this  beauty  be 
The  dear  retreat,  the  Eden  home, 

That  it  hath  been  to  me  ! 


WIDOW  AT  HER  DAUGHTER'S  BRIDAL 

DEAL  gently  thou,  whose  hand  hath  won 

The  young  bird  from  its  nest  away, 
Where  careless,  'neath  a  vernal  sun, 

She  gayly  carolled,  day  by  day ; 
The  haunt  is  lone,  the  heart  must  grieve, 

From  whence  her  timid  wing  doth  soar, 
They  pensive  list  at  hush  of  eve, 

Yet  hear  her  gushing  song  no  more. 

Deal  gently  with  her ;  thou  art  dear, 

Beyond  what  vestal  lips  have  told, 
And,  like  a  lamb  from  fountains  clear, 

She  turns  confiding  to  thy  fold ; 
She,  round  thy  sweet  domestic  bower 

The  wreaths  of  changeless  love  shall  twine, 
Watch  for  thy  step  at  vesper  hour, 

And  blend  her  holiest  prayer  with  thine. 

Deal  gently  thou,  when,  far  away, 

Mid  stranger  scenes  her  foot  shall  rove, 
Nor  let  thy  tender  care  decay — 

The  soul  of  woman  lives  in  love : 
And  shouldst  thou,  wondering,  mark  a  tear, 

Unconscious,  from  her  eyelids  break, 
Be  pitiful,  and  soothe  the  fear 

That  man's  strong  heart  may  ne'er  partake, 

A  mother  yields  her  gem  to  thee, 

On  thy  -true  breast  to  sparkle  rare ; 
She  places  'neath  thy  household  tree 

The  idol  of  her  fondest  care  : 
And  by  thy  trust  to  be  forgiven, 

When  Judgment  wakes  in  terror  wild. 
By  all  thy  treasured  hopes  of  heaven, 

Deal  gently  with  the  widow's  child ! 


KATHERINE    A.    WARE 


(Born  1797-Died  1813.) 


KATHERINE  AUGUSTA  RHODES  was  born  in 
J797  at  Quincy,  in  Massachusetts,  where  her 
father  Avas  a  physician.  She  was  remarkable 
in  childhood  for  a  love  of  reading,  and  for 
a  justness  of  taste  much  beyond  her  years. 
She  wrote  verses  at  a  very  early  age,  and  a 
poem  at  fifteen,  upon  the  death  of  her  kins 
man,  Robert  Treat  Paine,  which  possessed 
sufficient  merit  to  be  included  in  the  collec 
tion  of  that  author's  works.  In  1819  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  Charles  A.  Ware,  of  the 
Navy,  and  in  the  next  few  years  she  ap 
peared  frequently  as  a  writer  of  odes  for 
public  occasions  and  as  a  contributor  to  lit 
erary  journals.  Among  her  odes  was  one 
addressed  to  Lafayette  and  presented  to  him 
in  the  ceremony  of  his  reception  in  Boston, 
by  her  eldest  child,  then  five  years  old  ;  and 
another,  in  honor  of  Governor  De  Witt  Clin 
ton,  which  was  recited  at  the  great  Canal 
Celebration  in  New  York. 

In  1828  Mrs.  Ware  commenced  in  Boston 
the  publication  of  a  literary  periodical,  enti 
tled  The  Bower  of  Taste,  which  was  con 
tinued  several  years.  She  subsequently  re 
sided  in  New  York,  and  in  1839  went  to  Eu 
rope,  where  she  remained  until  her  death,  in 
Paris  in  1843. 

A  few  months  before  she  died,  Mrs.  Ware 
published,  in  London,  a  selection  from  her 
writings,  under  the  title  of  The  Power  of  the 
Passions  and  other  Poems.  The  composition 
from  which  the  volume  has  its  principal  title 
was  originally  printed  in  the  Knickerbocker 
Magazine,  for  April  in  the  same  year.  This, 
though  the  longest,  is  scarcely  the  best  of  her 


productions,  but  it  has  passages  of  consider 
able  strength  and  boldness,  and  some  felici 
ties  of  expression.  She  describes  a  public 
dancer,  as 

Moving  as  if  her  element  were  air, 
And  music  was  the  echo  of  her  step ; 

and  there  are  many  other  lines  noticable  for 
a  picturesque  beauty  or  a  fine  cadence.  In 
other  poems,  also,  are  parts  which  are  much 
superior  to  their  contexts,  as  if  written  in 
moments  of  inspiration,  and  added  to  in  la 
borious  leisure:  as  the  following,  from  The 
Diamond  Island,  which  refers  to  a  beautiful 
place  in  Lake  George: 

How  sweet  to  stray  along  thy  flowery  shore, 
Where  crystals  sparkle  in  the  sunny  ray ; 

While  the  red  boatman  plies  his  silvery  oar 
To  the  wild  measure  of  some  rustic  lay  ! 

and  these  lines,  from  an  allusion  to  Athens: 
Views  the  broad  stadium  where  th'e  gymnic  art 
Nerved  the  young  arm  and  energized  the  heart. 

or  this  apostrophe  to  sculpture,  from  Musings 
in  St.  James's  Cemetery  : 

Sculpture,  oh,  what  a  triumph  o'er  the  grave 
Hath  thy  proud  art !  thy  powerful  hand  can  save 
From  the  destroyers  grasp  the  noble  form, 
As  if  the  spirit  dwelt,  still  thrilling,  warm, 
In  every  line  and  feature  of  the  face, 
The  air  majestic,  and  the  simple  grace 
Of  flowing  robes,  which  shade,  but  not  conceal, 
All  that  -the  classic  chisel  would  reveal. 

These  inequalities  are  characteristic  of  the 
larger  number  of  Mrs.  Ware's  poems,  but 
there  are  in  her  works  some  pieces  marked 
by  a  sustained  elegance,  and  deserving  of 
praise  for  their  fancy  and  feeling  as  well  as 
for  an  artist-like  finish. 


LOSS  OF  THE  FIRST  BORN. 

I  SAW  a  pale  young  mother  bending  o'er 

Her  first-born  hope.  Its  soft  blue  eyes  wore  closed, 
Not  in  the  balmy  dream  of  downy  rest : 

In  Dentil's  embrace  the  shrouded  babe  reposed ; 
It  slept  the  dreamless  sleep  that  wakes  no  more. 

A  low  sigh  struggled  in  her  heavinir  breast. 
But  yet  she  \vept  not :   hers  was  the  deep  grief 

The  .icsirt,  in  its  dark  desolation,  feels; 
Which  breathes  not  in  impassioned  accents  wild, 


But  slowly  the  warm  pulse  of  life  congeals; 
A  grief  which  from  the  world  seeks  no  relief — 

A  mother's  sorrow  o'er  her  first-born  child. 
She  gazed  upon  it  with  a  steadfast  eye,      [thee  !? 

Which  seemed  to  say,  "  Oh,  would  I  were  with 
As  if  her  every  earthly  hope  were  fled 

With  that  departed  cherub.     Even  he —     [sigh 
Her  young  heart's  choice,  who  breathed  a  father's 

Of  bitter  anguish  o'er  the  unconscious  dead — 
Felt  not,  while  weeping  by  its  funeral  bier, 
One  pang  so  deep  as  hers,  who  shed  no  tear. 
102 


KATHERINE    A.    WARE. 


103 


MADNESS. 

I ' VK  seen  the  wreck  of  loveliest  things  :  I  've  wept 

O'er  youthful  Beauty  in  her  snowy  shroud, 
All  cold  and  pale,  as  when  the  moon  hath  slept 

In  the  white  foldings  of  a  wintry  cloud 

I  've  seen  the  wreck  of  glorious  things  :  I  've  sighed 

O'er  sculptured  temples  in  prostration  laid ; 
Towers  which  the  blast  of  ages  had  defied, 

Now  mouldering  beneath  the  ivy's  shade. 
Yet  oh  !  there  is  a  scene  of  deeper  wo, 

To  which  the  soul  can  never  be  resigned : 
'Tis  Phrensy's  triumph,  Reason's  overthrow — 

The  ruined  structure  of  the  human  mind ! 
Yes!  'tis  a  sight  of  paralyzing  dread, 

To  mark  the  rolling  of  the  maniac's  eye 
From  which  the  spark  of  intellect  hath  fled — 

The  laugh  convulsive,  and  the  deep-drawn  sigh  ; 
To  see  Ambition,  with  his  moonlight  helm, 

Armed  with  the  fancied  panoply  of  war, 
The  mimic  sovereign  of  a  powerful  realm — 

His  shield  a  shadow,  and  his  spear  a  straw ; 
To  see  pale  Beauty  raise  her  dewy  eyes. 

Toss  her  white  arms,  and  beckon  things  of  air, 
As  if  she  held  communion  with  the  skies, 

And  all  she  loved  and  all  she  sought  were  there ; 
To  list  the  warring  of  unearthly  sounds, 

Which  wildly  rise,  like  Ocean's  distant  swell, 
Or  spirits  shrieking  o'er  enchanted  grounds, 

Forth  rushing  from  dark  Magic's  secret  cell. 
Oh,  never,  never  may  such  fate  be  mine ! 

I  'd  rather  dwell  in  earth's  remotest  cave, 
So  I  my  spirit  calmly  might  resign 

To  Him  who  Reason's  glorious  blessing  gave. 


A  NEW-YEAR  WISH. 

TO  A  CHILD  AGED  FIVE  YEARS. 

DEAR  one,  while  bending  o'er  thy  couch  of  rest, 

I  've  looked  on  thee  as  thou  wert  calmly  sleeping, 
And  wished — Oh,  couldst  thou  ever  be  as  blest 

As  now,  when  haply  all  thy  cause  of  weeping 
Is  for  a  truant  bird,  or  faded  rose  ! 

Though  these  light  griefs  call  forth  the  ready  tear, 
They  cast  no  shadow  o'er  thy  soft  repose — 

No  trace  of  care  or  sorrow  lingers  here. 
With  rosy  check  upon  the  pillow  prest, 

To  me  thou  seem'st  a  cherub  pure  and  fair, 
With  thy  sweet  smile  and  gently  heaving  breast, 

And  the  bright  ringlets  of  thy  clustering  hair. 
What  shall  I  wish  thee,  little  one  ?     Smile  on 

Thro'  childhood's  morn — thro'  life's  gay  spring — 
For  oh,  too  soon  will  those  bright  hours  be  gone  ! — 

In  youth  time  flies  upon  a  silken  wing. 
May  thy  young  mind,  beneath  the  bland  control 

Of  education,  lasting  worth  acquire; 
May  Virtue  stamp  her  signet  on  thy  soul, 

Direct  thy  steps,  and  every  thought  inspire ! 
Thy  parents'  earliest  hope — be  it  their  care 

To  guide  thee  through  youth's  path  of  shade  and 

flowers, 
And  teach  thee  to  avoid  -false  pleasure's  snare — 

Be  thine,  to  smile  upon  their  evening  hours. 


MARKS  OF  TIME. 

AN  infant  boy  was  playing  among  flowers 
Old  Time,  that  unbribed  register  of  hours, 
Came  hobbling  on,  but  smoothed  his  wrinkled  face, 
To  mark  the  artless  joy  and  blooming  grace 
Of  the  young  cherub,  on  whose  cheek  so  fair 
He  smiled,  and    left    a    rosy    dimple  there. 

Next  Boyhood  followed,  with  his  shout  of  glee, 
Elastic  step,  and  spirit  wi  d  and  free 
As  the  young  fawn  that  scales  the  mountain  height. 
Or  new-fledged  eaglet  in  his  sunward  flight: 
Time  cast  a  glance  upon  the  care  ess  boy, 
Who  frolicked  onward  with  a  bound  of  joy.      f  eyo 

Then  Youth  came  forward :  his  bright-glancing 
Seemed  a  reflection  of  the  cloud 'ess  sky  ! 
The  dawn  of  passion,  in  its  purest  glow, 
Crimsoned  his  cheek,  and  beamed  upon  his  brow, 
Giving  expression  to  his  blooming  face, 
And  to  his  fragile  form  a  manly  grace ; 
His  voice  was  harmony,  his  speech  was  truth — 
Time  lightly  laid  his  hand  upon  the  youth. 

Manhood  next  followed,  in  the  sunny  prime 
Of  life's  meridian  bloom :  all  the  sublime 
And  beautiful  of  nature  met  his  view, 
Brightened  by  Hope,  whose  radiant  pencil  drew 
The  rich  perspective  of  a  scene  as  fair 
As  that  which  smiled  on  Eden's  sinless  pair ; 
Love,  fame,  and  glory,  with  alternate  sway, 
Thri  led  his  warm  heart,  and  with  electric  ray 
Illumed  his  eye  ;  yet  still  a  shade  of  care, 
Like  a  li^ht  cloud  that  floats  in  summer  air, 
Would  shed  at  times  a  transitory  gloom, 
But  shadowed  not  one  grace  of  manly  bloom. 
Time  sighed,  as  on  his  polished  brow  he  wrought 
The  first  impressive  lines  of  care  and  thought. 

Man  in  his  grave  maturity  came  next : 
A  bold  review  of  life,  from  the  broad  text 
Of  Nature's  ample  volume  !     He  had  scanned 
Her  varied  page,  and  a  high  course  had  planned ; 
Humbled  ambition,  wealth's  deceitful  smile, 
The  loss  of  friends,  disease,  and  mental  toil, 
Had  blanched  his  cheek  and  dimmed  his  ardent  eye. 
But  spared  his  noble  spirit's  energy  ! 
God's  proudest  stamp  of  intellectual  grace 
Still  shone  unclouded  on  his  careworn  face  ! 
On  his  high  brow  still  sate  the  firm  resolve 
Of  judgment  deep,  whose  issue  might  involve 
A  nation's  fate.     Yet  thoughts  of  milder  glow 
Would  oft,  like  sunbeams  o'er  a  mount  of  snow, 
Upon  his  cheek  their  genial  influence  cast, 
While  musing  o'er  the  bright  or  shadowy  past : 
Time,  as  he  marked  his  noblest  victim,  shed 
The  frost  of  years  upon  his  honored  head. 

Last  came,  with  trembling  limbs  and  bending 

form. 

Like  the  old  oak  scathed  by  the  wintry  storm. 
Man,  in  the   closing   stage  of  human  life — 
Nigh  passed  his  every  scene  of  peace  or  strife, 
Reason's  proud  triumph,  Passion's  wild  control. 
No  more  dispute    for    mastery,  o'er  his  soul , 
As  rest  the  billows  on  the  sea-beat  shore, 
The  war  of  rivalry  is  heard  no  more ; 
Faith's  steady  light  alone  illumes  his  eye, 
F>r  Time  is  pointing  to  Eternity  ! 


JANE    L.    GRAY. 


(Born  1800). 


Mus.  J.  L.  GRAY  is  a  daughter  of  William 
Lewcrs,  Esquire,  of  Castle  Clayney,  in  the 
north  of  Ireland.  She  was  educated  at  the 
celebrated  Moravian  seminary  of  Gracehill, 
near  Belfast,  was  married  at  an  early  age, 
and  has  resided  nearly  all  her  lifetime  at  Eas- 
ton,  in  Pennsylvania,  where  her  husband,  the 
Rev.  John  Gray,  D.  D.,  is  pastor  of  the  First 
Presbyterian  Church.  In  this  beautiful,  ro 
mantic,  and  classical  spot  — the  veritable 
"  Forks  of  the  Delaware, "consecrated  by  the 
labors  of  Brainard,  and  celebrated  in  poetry 
and  romance  as  in  history  —  Mrs.  Gray  has 
written  all  her  pieces  which  have  been  given 
to  the  public.  Her  life  has  been  one  of  re 


tiring,  domestic  quietude,  such  as  Christian 
women  spend  in  the  midst  of  a  numerous 
family  to  whom  they  are  devoted  with  ma 
ternal  solicitude.  Her  Sabbath  Reminiscen 
ces  are  descriptive  of  real  scenes  and  events 
connected  with  the  church  of  which  her  fa 
ther  was  an  elder.  The  poem  entitled  Morn, 
having  been  attributed  by  some  reviewrer  to 
Mr.  Montgomery,  that  poet  observes,  in  a 
published  letter,  that  the  author  of  the  mis 
take  "  did  him  honor."  It  is  certainly  a  fine 
poem,-  though  scarcely  equal,  perhaps,  to 
some  pieces  which  Mrs.  Gray  has  written 
from  the  more  independent  suggestions  of 
her  own  mind. 


TWO  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 

AN    OPE, 

Written  for  the  bi-rentennial  celebration  of  the  illustrious  Wesminster 
\-st-iiiliIv  <>i'  J)iviiie.-<,  by  whom  the  standards  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  were  formed. 

Two  hundred  years,  two  hundred  years,  our  bark 

o'er  billowy  seas 

Has  onward  kept  her  steady  course,  through  hur 
ricane  and  breeze ; 
Her  Captain  was  the  Mighty  One,  she  braved  the 

stormy  foe, 
And  still  he  guides  who  guided  her  two  hundred 

years  ago ! 
Her  chart  was  God's  unerring  word,  by  which 

her  course  to  steer ; 
Her  helmsman  was  the  risen  Lord,  a  helper  ever 

near  : 
Though   many   a  beauteous  boat  has  sunk  the 

treacherous  waves  below, 
Yet  ours  is  sound  as  she  was  built,  two  hundred 

years  ago! 
The  wind  that  filled  her  swelling  sheet  from  many 

a  point  has  blown, 
Still  urging  her  unchanging  course,  through  shoals 

and  breakers,  on — 
ITo.r  fluttering  pennant  still  the    same,  whatever 

l,i. r/.e  might  blow — 
It  pointed,  as  it  does,  to  heaven,  two  hundred 

years  ago ! 

\V  ben  first  our  gallant  ship  was  launched,  although 

her  hands  were  few, 
Yet  dauntless  was  each  bosom  found,  and  every 

heart  was  true ; 
And  still,  though  in  her  mighty  hull  unnumbered 

bosoms  glow, 


Her  crew  is  faithful  as  it  was  two  hundred  years 
ago! 

True,  some  have  left  this  noble  craft,  to  sail  the 
seas  alone, 

And  made  them,  in  their  hour  of  pride,  a  vessel 
of  their  own  ; 

Ah  me  !  when  clouds  portentous  rise,  when  threat 
ening  tempests  blow, 

They  '11  wish  for  that  old  vessel  built  two  hundred 
years  ago ! 

For  onward  rides  our  gallant  bark,  with  all  her 
canvass  set, 

In  many  a  nation  still  unknown  to  plant  her 
standard  yet ; 

Her  flag  shall  float  where'er  the  breeze  of  Free 
dom's  breath  shall  blow, 

And  millions  bless  the  boat  that  sailed  two  hun 
dred  years  ago ! 

On  Scotia's  coast,  in  days  of  yore,  she  lay  almost 
a  wreck — 

Her  mainmast  gone,  her  rigging  torn,  the  boarders 
on  her  deck  ! 

There  Cameron,  Cargill,  Cochran,  fell ;  there  Ren- 
wick's  blood  did  flow, 

Defending  our  good  vessel  built  two  hundred  years 
ago! 

Ah !  many  a  martyr's  blood  was  shed — we  may 
not  name  them  all — 

They  tore  the  peasant  from  his  hut,  the  noble  from 
his  hall ; 

Then,  brave  Argyle,  thy  father's  blood  for  faith  did 
freely  flow : 

And  pure  the  stream,  as  was  the  fount,  two  hun 
dred  years  ago ! 

104 


JANE   L.   GRAY. 


105 


Yet  onward  still  our  vessel  pressed,  and  weathered 

out  the  gale ; 
She  cleared  the  wreck,  and  spliced  the  mast,  and 

mended  every  sail, 
And  swifter,  stancher,  mightier  far,  upon  her  cruise 

did  go — 

Strong  hands  and  gallant  hearts  had  she,  two  hun 
dred  years  ago ! 
And  see  her  now — on  her  beam  ends  cast,  beneath 

a  northwest  storm : 
Heave  overboard  the  very  bread,  to  keep  the  ship 

from  harm ! — 
She  rights  !  she  rides  !— hark  !  how  they  cheer— 

«  All's  well,  above,  below  !" 

She 's  tight  as  when  she  left  the  stocks,  two  hun 
dred  years  ago ! 

True  to  that  guiding  star  which  led  to  Israel's  cra 
dled  hope, 
Her  steady  needle  pointeth  yet  to  Calvary's  bloody 

top! 
Yes,  there  she  floats,  that  good  old  ship,  from  mast 

to  keel  below, 
Sea-worthy  still,  as  erst  she  was,  two  hundred  years 

ago! 
Not  unto  us,  not  unto   us,  be  praise   or  glory 

given, 
But  unto  Him  who  watch  and  ward  hath  kept  for 

her  in  heaven ; 

Who  quelled  the  whirlwind  in  its  wrath,  bade  tem 
pests  cease  to  blow — 
That  God  who  launched  our  vessel  forth,  two  hun 

dred  years  ago ! 
Then  onward  speed  thee,  brave  old  bark,  speed 

onward  in  thy  pride, 
O'er  sunny  seas  and  billows  dark,  Jehovah  stil 

thy  guide ; 
And  sacred  be  each  plank  and  spar,  unchanged  by 

friend  or  foe, 

Just  as  she  left  Old  Westminster,  two  hundred 
years  ago ! 

SABBATH  REMINISCENCES. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember,  when  sabbath  mornin 

*OSCS 
We  changed,  for  garments  neat  and  clean,  our  soile 

week-day  clothes ; 
And  yet  no  gaudy  finery,  nor  brooch  nor  jewe 

rare, 
Bat  hands  and  faces  looking  bright,  and  smoothly 

parted  hair. 
'T  was  not  the  decking  of  the  head,  my  father  use 

to  say, 
But  careful  clothing  of  the  heart,  that  graced  tha 

holy  day — 
'T  was  not  the  bonnet  nor  the  dress ;  and  I  believe 

it  true  : 
But  these  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  sim 

pie  too. 
I  remember,  I  remember,  the  parlor  where  w 

met; 
Its  papered  wall,  its  polished  floor,  and  mantle  blac 

as  jet ; 


1  was  there  we  raised  our  morning  hymn,  melo 
dious,  sweet,  and  clear, 
nd  joined  in  prayer  with  that  loved  voice  which 

we  no  more  may  hear, 
ur  morning  sacrifice  thus  made,  then  to  the  house 

of  God 
How  solemnly,  and  silently,  and  cheerfully,  we 

trod  !— 
see  e'en  now  its  low,  thatched  roof,  its  floor  of 

trodden  clay, 
And  our  old  pastor's  timeworn  face,  an  I  wig  of 

silver  gray, 
remember,  I  remember,  how  hushed  and  mute  we 

were, 
While  he  led  our  spirits  up  to  God  in  heartfelt, 

melting  prayer ; 
grace  his  action  or  his  voice,  no  studied  charm 

was  lent : 
Pure,  fervent,  glowing  from  the  heart,  so  to  the  heart 

it  went. 
Then  came  the  sermon,  long  and  quaint,  but  full 

of  gospel  truth ; 
Ah  me  !  I  was  no  judge  of  that,  for  I  was  then  in 

youth ; 
But  I  have  heard  my  father  say,  and  well  my  father 

knew, 
In  it  was  meat  for  full-grown  men,  and  milk  for 

children  too. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  as  'twere  but  yesterday, 
The  psalms  in  Rouse's  Version  sung,  a  rude  but 

lovely  lay ; 
Nor  yet  though  Fashion's  hand  has  tried  to  train 

my  wayward  ear, 
Can  I  find  aught  in  modern  verse  so  holy  or  so 

dear ! 
And  well  do  I  remember,  too,  our  old  preceptor's 

face, 
As  he  read  out  and  sung  the  line  with  patriarchal 

Though  rudely  rustic  was  the  sound,  I  'm  sure  that 
God  was  praised 

When  David's  words  to  David's  tune*  five  hun 
dred  voices  raised ! 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  morning  sermon 
done,  . 

An  hour  of  intermission  came— we  wandei 
the  sun ; 

How  hoary  farmers  sat  them  down  upon  the  daisy 

And  talked  of  bounteous  Nature's  stores, ^nd  Na 
ture's  bounteous  God ; — 

And  matrons  talked,  as  matrons  will,  of  sickness 
and  of  health— 

Of  births,  and  deaths,  and  marriages,  of  poverty 
and  wealth ; 

And  youths  and  maidens  stole  apart,  withm  It 
shady  grove, 

And  whispered  'neath  its  spreading  bough,  per 
chance  some  tale  of  love  ! 

*  m  David's  was  one  of  the  few  tunes  used  by  the  coo 
gregation  to  which  I  have  allusion. 


206 


JANE    L.    GRAY. 


I  remember,  I  remember,  how  in  the  churchyard 

lone 
I've  stolen  away  and  sat  me  down  beside  the  rude 

gravestone, 
Or  read  the  names  of  those  who  slept  beneath  the 

clay -cold  clod, 
And  thought  of  spirits  glittering  bright  before  the 

throne  of  God ! 

Or  where  the  little  rivulets  danced  sportively  and 

bright, 
Receiving  on  its  limpid  breast  the  sun's  meridian 

light, 
I  've  wandered  forth,  and  thought  if  hearts  were 

pure  like  this  sweet  stream, 
How  fair  to  heaven  they  might  reflect  heaven's 

uncreated  beam ! 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  second  sermon  o'er, 
We  turned  our  faces  once  again  to  our  paternal 

door; 

And  round  the  well-filled,  ample  board  sat  no  re 
luctant  guest, 
For  exercise  gave  appetite,  and  loved  ones  shared 

the  feast ! 
Then,  ere  the  sunset  hour  arrived,  as  we  were 

wont  to  do, 
The  catechism's  well   conned  page,  we   said  it 

through  and  through ; 
And  childhood's  faltering  tongue  was  heard  to  lisp 

the  holy  word, 
And  older  voices  read  aloud  the  message  of  the 

Lord. 
Away  back  in  those  days  of  yore — perhaps  the 

fault  was  mine — 
I  used  to  think  the  sabbath  day,  dear  Lord,  was 

wholly  thine ; 
When  it  behooved  to  keep  the  heart  and  bridle 

fast  the  tongue : 
But  these  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  very 

young. 

The  world  has  grown  much  older  since  these  sun- 
bright  sabbath  days — 
The  world  has  grown  much  older  since,  and  she 

has  changed  her  ways : 
Some  say  that  she  has  wiser  grown ;  ah  me !  it 

may  be  true, 
As  wisdom  comes  by  length  of  years,  but  so  does 

dotage,  too. 

Oh !  happy,  happy  years  of  truth,  how  beautiful, 
how  fair, 

To  Memory's  retrospective  eye,  your  trodden  path 
ways  are  ! 

The  thorns  forgot — remembered  still  the  fragrance 
and  the  flowers — 

The  loved  companions  of  my  youth,  and  sunny 
sabbath  hours ! — 

And  onward,  onward,  onward  still,  successive  sab 
baths  <*otne, 

As  guides  to  lead  us  on  the  road  to  our  eternal 
home ; 

Or  like  the  visioned  ladder  once  to  slumbering 
Jacob  given, 

From  heaven  descending  to  the  earth,  lead  back 
from  earth  to  heaven  ! 


MORN. 

IN  IMITATION  OF  "NIGHT,"  BY  JAMES  MONTGOMERT 

Mo  UN  is  the  time  to  wake — 

The  eyelids  to  unclose — 
Spring  from  the  arms  of  Sleep,  and  break 

The  fetters  of  repose  ; 
Walk  at  the  dewy  dawn  abroad, 
And  ho!d  sweet  fellowship  with  God. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  pray: 

How  lovely  and  how  meet 
To  send  our  earliest  thoughts  away 

Up  to  the  mercy  seat ! 
Ambassadors,  for  us  to  claim 
A  blessing  in  our  Master's  name. 
Morn  is  the  time  to  sing : 

How  charming  't  is  to  hear 
The  mingling  notes  of  Nature  ring 

In  the  delighted  ear  ! 
And  with  that  swelling  anthem  raise 
The  soul's  fresh  matin  song  of  praise ! 
Morn  is  the  time  to  sow 

The  seeds  of  heavenly  truth, 
While  balmy  breezes  softly  blow 

Upon  the  soil  of  youth ; 
And  look  to  thee,  nor  look  in  vain, 
Our  God,  for  sunshine  and  for  rain. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  love  : 

As  tendrils  of  the  vine, 
The  young  affections  fondly  rove, 

And  seek  them  where  to  twine. 
Around  thyself,  in  thine  embrace, 
Lord,  let  them  find  their  resting  place. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  shine, 

When  skies  are  clear  and  blue — 
Reflect  the  rays  of  light  divine 
As  morning  dewdrops  do  : 
Like  early  stars,  be  early  bright, 
And  melt  away  like  them  in  light. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  weep 

O'er  morning  hours  misspent : 
Alas  !  how  oft  from  peaceful  sleep 

On  folly  madly  bent, 
We've  left  the  strait  and  narrow  road, 
And  wandered  from  our  guardian  God ! 
Morn  is  the  time  to  think, 

While  thoughts  are  fresh  and  free, 
Of  life  just  balanced  on  the  brink 

Of  dark  eternity  ! 

And  ask  our  souls  if  they  are  meet 
To  stand  before  the  judgment  seat. 
Morn  is  the  time  to  die, 

Just  at  the  dawn  of  day — 
When  stars  are  fading  in  the  sky, 

To  fade  like  them  away : 
But  lost  in  light  more  brilliant  far 
Than  ever  merged  the  morning  star. 
Morn  is  the  time  to  rise, 

The  resurrection  morn — 
Upspringing  to  the  glorious  skies, 

On  new-found  pinions  borne, 
To  meet  a  Savior's  smile  divine  : 
Be  sii3h  ecstatic  rising  mine  ! 


SOPHIA   L.    LITTLE. 


(Born  1799). 


MRS.  LITTLE  was  born  at  Newport,  in  the 
year  1799.  She  is  the  second  daughter  of  the 
late  eminent  jurist  and  statesman  Asher  Rob- 
bins,  who  for  fourteen  years  was  a  senator 
of  the  state  of  Rhode  Island  in  the  national 
Congress.  She  inherits  much  of  her  father's 
genius  and  love  of  letters,  and  she  displayed 
from  early  childhood,  under  the  advantages 
of  his  judicious  culture,  the  strong  imagina 
tion,  ready  fancy,  and  chastened  taste,  which 
in  him  were  united  to  an  uncommon  capaci 
ty  for  analysis  and  a  vigorous  and  far  reach 
ing  logic. 

In  1824  she  was  married  to  Mr.  William 
Little,  junior,  of  Boston,  a  gentleman  of  con 
genial  tastes,  whose  principles  of  criticism, 
more  severe  and  exacting  than  her  own, 
contributed  very  much  to  the  discipline  and 
growth  of  her  poetical  abilities.  She  had 
occasionally  written  verses  for  the  amuse 
ment  of  her  friends,  and  had  published  in  the 


journals  a  few  pieces,  under  the  s  gnature 
of  Ro  WEN  A,  previous  to  1828,  when  her  po 
em  entitled  Thanksgiving  appeared  in  The 
Token,  an  annual  souvenir  edited  for  many 
years  by  Mr.  S.  G.  Goodrich,  Thanksgiving 
is  a  natural  and  striking  picture  of  the  New 
England  autumn  festival  :  it  has  an  odor  of 
nationality  about  it ;  and  it  will  live,  both 
for  its  fidelity  and  its  felicity,  as  one  of  the 
finest  memorials  of  an  institution  which  in 
later  years  has  lost  much  of  its  primitive 
character  and  attractiveness. 

Besides  many  shorter  poems  which  have 
appeared  in  periodicals,  Mrs.  Little  has  since 
published  :  in  1839,  The  Last  Days  of  Jesus  ; 
in  1842,  The  Annunciation  and  Birth  of  Je 
sus,  and  The  Resurrection  ;  and  in  1844,  The 
Betrothed,  and  The  Branded  Hand.  In  1843 
she  also  published  a  small  work  in  prose, 
entitled  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  in  the  Last 
Days,  in  imitation  of  Bunyan. 


THE  POET. 

HE  is  happy  :  not  that  fame 
Givelh  him  a  glorious  name  ; 
For  the  world's  applause  is  vain, 
Lost  and  won  with  little  pain  : 
But  a  sense  is  in  his  spirit 
Which  no  vulgar  minds  inherit — 
A  second  sight  of  soul  which  sees 
Into  Nature's  mysteries. 

Place  him  by  the  ocean's  side, 
When  the  waters  dash  with  pride : 
With  their  wild  and  awful  roll 
Deep  communes  his  lifted  soul. 
Now  let  the  sudden  tempest  come 
From  its  cloudy  eastern  home  ; 
Let  the  thunder's  fearful  shocks 
Break  among  the  dark,  rough  rocks, 
And  lightning,  as  the  waves  aspire, 
Crown  him  with  a  wreath  of  fire ; 
Let  the  wind  with  sullen  breath 
Seem  to  breathe  a  dirge  of  death : 
Thou  mayst  feel  thy  cheek  turn  pale ; 
But  he  that  looks  within  the  veil, 
The  bard,  high  priest  at  Nature's  shrine, 
Trembles  with  a  warmth  divine. 
His  heaving  breast,  his  kindling  eye, 
His  brow's  expanded  majesty, 


Show  that  the  spirit  of  his  thought 
Hath  Nature's  inspiration  caught. 

Now  place  him  in  a  gentle  scene, 
'Neath  an  autumn  sky  serene ; 
Let  some  hamlet  skirt  his  way, 
Gleaming  in  the  fading  day ; 
Let  him  hear  the  distant  low 
Of  the  herds  that  homeward  go ; 
Let  him  catch,  as  o'er  it  floats, 
The  music  of  the  robin's  notes, 
As  softly  sinks  upon  its  nest 
He,  of  birds  the  kindliest ; 
Let  him  catch  from  yonder  nook 
The  murmur  of  the  minstrel  brook ; 
The  stones  that  fain  would  check  its  way 
It  leapcth  o'er  with  purpose  gay, 
Or  only  lingereth  for  a  time, 
To  draw  from  them  a  merrier  chime ; 
E'en  as  a  gay  and  gentle  mind, 
Though  rough  breaks  in  life  it  find, 
Passe th  by  as  'twere  not  so, 
Or  draws  sweet  uses  out  of  wo ; 
The  scene  doth  on  his  soul  impress 
Its  glory  and  its  loveliness. 

Now  place  him  in  some  festal  hall 
The  merry  band  of  minstrels  call, 
Banish  sorrow,  pain,  and  care, 
Let  graceful,  sprightly  youth  be  there 


108 


SOPHIA    L.    LITTLE. 


Beauty,  with  her  jewelled  zone 
And  sparkling  draperv  round  her  thrown  , 
Beauty,  who  surest  aims  her  glance 
When  the  free  motion  of  the  dance 
All  her  varied  charms  hath  stirred, 
As  the  plumage  of  a  hird 
Shows  brightest  when  in  air  he  springs, 
Spreading  forth  his  sunny  wings. 
Place  the  bard  in  scenes  like  this, 
E'en  here  he  knows  no  common  bliss. 
Beauty,  mirth,  and  music,  twined, 
Shed  b'and  witchery  o'er  hi.s  mind. 
Yet  not  alone  these  charm  his  eyes — 
In  fancy  other  sights  he  spies: 
The  ancient  feats  of  chivalry, 
Of  war's  and  beauty's  rivalry. 

That  hall  becomes  an  open  space, 
Where  knights  contend  for  ladies'  grace. 
He  sees  a  creature  far  more  fair 
Than  any  forms  around  him  are ; 
One  love  glance  of  her  radiant  eyes, 
The  boon  for  which  the  valiant  dies. 
He  sees  the  armored  knights  advance, 
He  hears  the  shiver  of  the  lance, 
And  then  the  shout  when  tourney's  done 
That  greets  the  conquering  champion, 
While,  kneeling  at  his  lady's  feet, 
The  victor's  heart  doth  scarcely  beat, 
As,  blushing  like  a  newborn  rose, 
His  chosen  queen  the  prize  bestows. 

But  would  you  know  the  season  when 
He  triumphs  most  o'er  other  men, 
See  him  when  heart,  pulse,  and  brain, 
Are  bound  in  Love's  mysterious  chain. 
Behold  him  then  beside  the  maid : 
There 's  not  one  curl  hath  thrown  its  shade 
In  vain  upon  that  bosom's  swell ; 
All  are  secrets  of  the  spell 
That  holds  the  visionary  boy 
Breathless  in  his  trance  of  joy. 
And  yet  no  definite  desire 
Does  that  strong  sense  of  bliss  inspire ; 
But  sweetly  vague  and  undefined 
The  feeling  that  enthralls  his  mind — 
An  indistinct,  deep  dream  of  heaven, 
Her  melting,  shadowy  eye  hath  given. 

These  the  poet's  p'easures  are ; 
These  the  dull  world  can  not  share ; 
These  make  fame  so  poor  a  prize 
[n  his  heaven  enlightened  eyes. 
What  is  poetry  but  this — 
A  glimpse  of  our  lost  state  of  bliss; 
A  noble  reaching  of  the  mind 

For  that  for  which  it  was  designed 

A  si^n  to  lofty  spirits  given, 

To  show  them  they  were  born  for  heaven  ; 

Light  from  above,  quenched  when  it  falls 

Whore  the  gross  earth  with  darkness  palls 

The  fallen  soul  content  to  be 

Wt-<l  to  its  sad  degeneracy  ; 

But  when,  like  light  on  crystal  streams, 

On  a  pure  mind  its  effluence  beams, 

How  brightly  in  such  spirit  lins 

An  image  of  the  far  off  sKies ! 


THANKSGIVING. 

IT  is  thanksgiving  morn — 'tis  cold  and  clear; 
The  bells  for  church  ring  forth  a  merry  sound ; 
The  maidens,  in  their  gaudy  winter  gear, 
Rival  the  many  tinted  woods  around ; 
The  rosy  children  skip  along  the  ground, 
Save  where  the  matrojj  reins  their  eager  pace, 
Pointing  to  him  who  with  a  look  profound 
Moves  with  his  '  people'  toward  the  sacred  place 
Where  duly  he  bestows  the  manna  crumbs  of 
grace. 

Of  the  deep  learning  in  the  schools  of  yore 
The  reverend  pastor  hath  a  golden  stock  : 
Yet,  with  a  vain  display  of  useless  lore, 
Or  sapless  doctrine,  never  will  he  mock 
The  better  cravings  of  his  simple  flock ; 
But  faithfully  their  humble  shepherd  guides 
Where  streams  eternal  gush  from  Calvary's  rock ; 
For  well  he  knows,  not  Learning's  purest  tides 
Can  quench  the  immortal  thirst  that  in  the  soul 
abides. 

The  anthem  swells ;  the  heart's  high  thanks  are 

given  : 

Then,  mildly,  as  the  dews  on  Hermon  fall, 
Begins  the  holy  minister  of  heaven. 
And  though  not  his  the  burning  zeal  of  Paul, 
Yet  a  persuasive  power  is  in  his  call : 
So  earnest,  though  so  kindly,  is  his  mood, 
So  tenderly  he  longs  to  save  them  all, 
No  bird  more  fondly  flutters  o'er  her  brood 
When  the  dark  vulture  screams  above  their  native 
wood. 

"  For  all  His  bounties,  dearest  charge,"  he  cries, 
"  Your  hearts  are  the  best  thanks ;  no  more  refrain ; 
Your  yielded  hearts  he  asks  in  sacrifice. 
Almighty  Lover !  shalt  thou  love  in  vain, 
And  vainly  woo  thy  wanderers  home  again  ? 
How  thy  soft  mercy  with  the  sinner  pleads ! 
Behold  !  thy  harvest  loads  the  ample  plain  ; 
And  the  same  goodness  lives  in  all  thy  deeds, 
From  the  least  drop  of  rain,  to  those  that  Jesus 
bleeds." 

Much  more  he  spake,  with  growing  ardor  fired : 
Oh,  that  my  lay  were  worthy  to  record 
The  moving  eloquence  his  theme  inspired ! 
For  like  a  free  and  copious  stream,  outpoured 
His  love  to  man  and  man's  indulgent  lord. 
All  were  subdued;  the  stoutest,  sternest  men, 
Heart  melted,  hung  on  every  precious  word : 
And  as  he  uttered  forth  his  full  amen, 
A  thousand  mingling  sobs  reechoed  it  again. 

Behold  that  ancient  house  on  yonder  lawn, 
Close  by  whose  rustic  porch  an  elm  is  seen  : 
Lo !  now  has  past  the  service  of  the  morn  ; 
A  joyous  group  are  hastening  o'er  the  green, 
Led  by  an  aged  sire  of  gracious  mien, 
Whose  gay  descendants  are  all  met  to  hold 
Their  glad  thanksgiving  in  that  sylvan  scene, 
That  once  enclosed  them  in  one  happy  fold, 
Ere  waves   of  time  and  change  had   o'er  them 
rolled. 


SOPHIA   L.   LITTLE. 


109 


The  hospitable  doors  are  open  thrown ; 
The  bright  wooil  fire  burns  cheerly  in  the  hall; 
And,  gathering  in,  a  busy  hum  makes  known 
The  spirit  of  free  mirth  that  moves  them  all. 
There,  a  youth  hears  a  lovely  cousin's  call, 
And  ilies  alertly  to  unclasp  the  cloak; 
And  she,  the  while,  with  merry  laugh  lets  fall 
Upon  his  awkwardness  some  lively  joke, 
Not  pitying  the  blush  her  bantering  has  woke. 

And  there  the  grandam  sits,  in  placid  ease, 
A  gentle  brightness  o'er  her  features  spread  : 
Her  children's  children  cluster  round  her  knees, 
Or  on  her  bosorn  fondly  rest  their  head. 
Oh,  happy  sight,  to  see  such  blossoms  shed 
Their  sweet  young  fragrance  o'er  such  ag  d  tree  ! 
How  vain  to  say,  that,  when  short  youth  has  fled, 
Our  dearest  of  enjoyments  cease  to  be, 
When  hoary  eld  is  loved  but  the  more  tenderly  !• 

And  there  the  manly  farmers  scan  the  news ; 
(Strong  is  their  sense,  though  plain  the  garb  it 

wears ;) 

Or,  while  their  pipes  a  lulling  smoke  diffuse, 
They  look  important  from  their  elbow  chairs, 
And  gravely  ponder  on  the  nation's  cares. 
The  matrons  of  the  morning  sermon  speak, 
And  each  its  passing  excellence  declares; 
While  tears  of  pious  rapture,  pure  and  meek, 
Course  in  soft  beauty  down  the  Christian  mother's 

cheek. 

Then,  just  at  on-e,  the  full  thanksgiving  feast, 
Rich  with  the  bounties  of  the  closing  year, 
Is  spread ;  and,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 
All  crowd  the  table,  and  enjoy  the  cheer. 
The  list  of  dainties  will  not  now  appear — 
Save  one  I  can  not  pass  unheeded  by, 
One  dish,  already  to  the  muses  dear, 
One  dish,  that  wakens  Memory's  longing  sigh — 
The  genuine  far  famed  Yankee  pumpkin  pie ! 

Who  e'er  has  seen  thee  in  thy  flaky  crust 
Display  the  yellow  richness  of  thy  breast, 
But,  as  the  si^ht  awoke  his  keenest  gust, 
Has  owned  th.ee  of  all  cates  the  choicest,  best  ? 
Ambrosia  were  a  fool,  to  thee  compared, 
Even  by  the  ruby  hand  of  Hebe  drest — 
Thee,  pumpkin  pie,  by  country  maids  prepared, 
With  their  white,  rounded  arms  above  the  elbow 
oared ! 

Now  to  the  kitchen  come  a  vacant  train, 
The  plenteous  fragments  of  the  feast  to  share. 
The  old  lame  fiddler  wakes  a  merry  strain, 
For  his  mulled  cider  and  his  pleasant  fare — 
Reclining  in  that  ancient  wicker  chair. 
A  veteran  soldier  he,  of  those  proud  times 
When  first  our  Freedom's  banner  kissed  the  air  : 
His  battles  oft  he  sings  in  untaught  rhymes, 
When  wakening  Memory  his  ag.'d  heart  sublimes. 

But  who  is  this,  whose  scarlet  cloak  has  known 
Full  oft  the  pelting  of  the  winter  storm  ? 
Through  its  fringed  hood  a  strong,  wild  face  is 

shown — 
Tall,  gaunt,  and  bent  with  years,  the  beldame's 

form : 


There 's  none  of  all  these  youth,  with  vigor  warm, 
"Who  dare  by  slightest  word  her  anger  stir. 
So  dark  the  frown  that  does  her  face  deform, 
That  half  the  frighted  villagers  aver 
The  very  de'il  himself  incarnate  is  in  her ! 

Yet  now  the  sybil  wears  her  mildest  mood  ; 
And  round  her  see  the  anxious,  silent  band. 
Falls  from  her  straggling  locks  the  antique  hood, 
As  close  she  peers  in  that  fair  maiden's  hand, 
W7ho  scarce  the  struggles  in  her  heart  can  stand ; 
Affection's  strength  hath  made  her  nature  weak 
She  of  her  lo\7ely  looks  hath  lost  command  : 
The  fleckered  red  and  white  within  her  cheek — 
Oh,  all  her  love  doth  there  most  eloquently  speak  ! 

Thy  doting  faith,  fond  maid,  may  envied  be, 
And  half  excused  the  superstitious  art. 
Now,  when  the  sybii's  mystic  words  to  thee 
The  happier  fortunes  of  thy  love  impart, 
Thrilling  tny  soul  in  its  most  vital  part, 
How  does  the  throb  of  inward  ecstasy 
Send  the  luxuriant  blushes  from  thy  heart 
All  o'er  thy  varying  cheek,  like  some  clear  sea 
Where  the  red  morning  glow  falls  full  but  trem 
blingly  ! 

'T  is  evening,  and  the  rural  balls  begin : 
The  fairy  call  of  music  all  obey  ; 
The  circles  round  domestic  hearths  grow  thin ; 
All,  at  the  joyful  signal,  hie  away 
To  yonder  hall,  with  lights  and  garlands  gay. 
There,  with  elastic  step,  young  belles  are  seen 
Entering,  all  conscious  of  their  coming  sway  : 
Not  oft  their  fancies  underrate,  I  ween, 
The  spoils  and  glories  of  this  festal  scene. 

New  England's  daughters  need  not  envy  those 
Who  in  a  monarch's  court  their  jewels  wear : 
More  lovely  they,  when  but  a  simple  rose 
Glows  through  the  golden  clusters  of  their  hair. 
Could  light  of  diamonds  make  her  look  more  fair, 
Who  moves  in  beauty  through  the  mazy  dance, 
W'ith  buoyant  feet  that  seem  to  skim  the  air, 
And  eyes  that  speak,  in  each  impassioned  glance, 
The  poetry  of  youth,  love's  sweet  and  short  ro 
mance  1 

He  thinks  not  so,  that  young  enamored  boy, 
Who  through  the  whirls  her  graceful  steps  doth 

guide, 

While  his  heart  swells  with  the  deep  pulse  of  joy. 
Oh,  no  :  by  Nature  taught,  unlearned  in  pride, 
He  sees  her  in  her  loveliness  arrayed, 
All  blushing  for  the  love  she  can  not  hide, 
And  feels  that  gaudy  Art  could  only  shade 
The    brightness    Nature  gave  to  his  unrivalled 

maid. 

Gay  bands,  move  on ;  your  draught  of  pleasure 
I  love  to  listen  to  your  joyous  din  ;  [qiuff; 

The  lad's  light  joke,  the  maiden's  mellow  laugh, 
And  the  brisk  music  of  the  violin. 
How  blithe  to  see  the  sprightly  dance  begin ! 
Entwining  hands,  they  seem  to  float  along, 
With  native  rustic  grace  that  well  might  win 
'  The  happiest  praises  of  a  sweeter  song, 
From  a  more  gifted  lyre  than  doth  to  me  belong. 


liO 


LYDIA   M.   CHILD. 


While  these  enjoy  the  mirth  that  suits  their  years, 
Round  the  home  fires  their  peaceful  elders  meet. 
A  gentler  mirth  their  friendly  converse  cheers ; 
And  yet,  though  calm  their  pleasures,  they  are 

sweet  : 

Through  the  cold  shadows  of  the  autumn  day 
Oft  hreaks  the  sunshine  with  as  genial  heat 
As  o'er  the  soft  and  sapphire  skies  of  May, 
Though  Nature  then  be  young  and  exquisitely  gay. 

On  the  white  wings  of  peace  their  days  have  flown, 
Nor  wholly  were  they  thralled  hy  earthly  cares ; 
Bui  from  their  hearts  to  Heaven's  paternal  throne 
Arose  the  daily  incense  of  their  prayers. 
And  now,  as  low  the  sun  of  being  wears, 


The  God  to  whom  their  morning  vows  were  paid, 
Each  grateful  offering  in  remembrance  bears ; 
And  cheering  beams  of  mercy  are  displayed, 
To  gild  with  heavenly  hopes  their  evening's  pensive 
shade. 

But  now,  farewell  to  thee,  Thanksgiving  Day  ! 
Thou  angel  of  the  year !  one  bounteous  hand 
The  horn  of  deep  abundance  doth  display, 
Raining  its  rich  profusion  o'er  the  land ; 
The  other  arm,  outstretched  with  gesture  grand, 
Pointing  its  upraised  finger  to  the  sky, 
Doth  the  warm  tribute  of  our  thanks  demand 
For  him,  the  Father  God,  who  from  on  high 
Sheds  gleams  of  purest  joy  o'er  man's  dark  destiny 


LYDIA    M.    CHILD, 


(Born  1802). 


Miss  FRANCIS,  now  Mrs.  DAVID  L.  CHILD, 
is  a  native  of  Massachusetts,  and  a  sister  of 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Conyers  Francis,  of  Harvard 
University.  She  is  one  of  the  most  able  and 
brilliant  authors  of  the  country,  as  is  shown 
by  her  Philothea,  Letters  from  New  York, 


and  other  works,  of  which  an  account  is 
given  in  the  Prose  Writers  of  America.  Most 
of  her  poems  are  contained  in  a  small  vol 
ume  which  she  published  many  years  ago, 
under  the  title  of  The  Coronal.  She  resides 
in  New  York. 


MARIUS. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PAINTING  BY  VANDERLYN,  OF  MA- 
(11  US  SKATED  AMONG  THE  RUINS  OF  CARTHAGE. 

PILLARS  are  falling  at  thy  feet, 

Fanes  quiver  in  the  air, 
\  prostrate  city  is  thy  seat — ' 

And  thou  alone  art  there. 

No  change  comes  o'er  thy  noble  brow, 

Though  ruin  is  around  thee — • 
Thine  eye-beam  burns  as  proudly  now, 

As  when  the  laurel  crowned  thee. 

It  can  not  bend  thy  lofty  soul, 
Though  friends  and  fame  depart; 

The  car  of  fate  may  o'er  thee  roll, 
Nor  crush  thy  Roman  heart. 

And  Genius  hath  electric  power, 

Which  earth  can  never1  tame ; 
Bright  suns  may  scorch,  and  dark  clouds  lower — 

Its  flash  is  still  the  same 

The  dreams  we  loved  in  early  life 

May  molt  like  mist  away ; 
rliijh  thoughts  may  seem,  mid  passion's  strife, 

Like  Carthage  in  decay. 

And  proud  hopes  in  the  human  heart 

May  be  to  ruin  hurled, 
Like  mouldering  monuments  of  art 

lU-api-d  on  a  sleeping  world. 

Vet  then1  is  something  will  not  die, 

Where  life  hath  once  been  fair: 
^criM1  towering  thoughts  still  rear  on  high, 

S-ime  Roman  lingers  there  ! 


LINES, 

ON  HEARING  A  BOY  MOCK  THE  SOUND  OF  A  CLOCK 
IN  A  CHURCH-STEEPLE,  AS  IT  RUNG  AT  MIDDAY. 

AY,  ring  thy  shout  to  the  merry  hours : 

Well  may  ye  part  in  glee ; 
From  their  sunny  wings  they  scatter  flowers, 

And,  laughing,  look  on  thee. 

Thy  thrilling  voice  has  started  tears : 

It  brings  to  mind  the  day 
When  I  chased  butterflies  and  years — 

And  both  flew  fast  away. 

Then  my  glad  thoughts  were  few  and  free : 

They  came  but  to  depart, 
And  did  not  ask  where  heaven  could  be — 

'Twas  in  my  little  heart. 

I  since  have  sought  the  meteor  crown, 

Which  fame  bestows  on  men  : 
How  gladly  would  I  throw  it  down, 

To  be  so  gay  again  ! 

But  youthful  joy  has  gone  away  : 

In  vain  'tis  now  pursued  ; 
Such  rainbow  glories  only  stay 

Around  the  simple  good. 
I  know  too  much,  to  be  as  blessed 

As  when  I  was  like  thee ; 
My  spirit,  reasoned  into  rest, 

Has  lost  its  buoyancy. 

Yet  still  I  love  the  winged  hours  : 

\Ve  often  part  in  glee — 
And  sometimes,  too,  are  fragrant  flowers 

Their  fart^ell  gifts  to  me. 


LOUISA   J.    HALL. 


(Born  1802). 


LOUISA  JANE  PARK,  now  Mrs.  HALL,  was 
burn  in  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  on  the 
seventh  of  February,  1802.  Her  father  was 
a  physician,  but  when  she  was  about  two 
years  of  age  he  abandoned  his  profession  to 
remove  to  Boston,  for  the  purpose  of  editing 
The  Repertory,  a  leading  political  journal  of 
the  Federal  party.  In  a  few  years  he  be 
came  weary  of  the  conflict,  then  waged  with 
so  much  violence,  and,  urged  to  do  so  by  some 
of  the  most  intelligent  citizens,  opened  a 
school  for  young  women,  in  which  a  more 
thorough  education  might  be  received  than 
was  common  in  that  period.  His  daugh 
ter  was  then  in  her  tenth  year ;  he  had  al 
ready  made  her  familiar  with  Milton  and 
Shakspere  ;  and  it  was  partly  with  the  view 
of  exe  uJng  his  plans  for  her  education  that 
he  decided  to  become  a  public  teacher.  His 
school  was  opened  in  the  spring  of  1811 ,  and 
for  twenty  years  was  eminently  successful. 
His  daughter,  except  when  her  studies  were 
interrupted  by  ill  health,  was  eight  years  his 
pupil.  She  early  showed  symptoms  of  a  sus 
ceptible  constitution,  and  her  experience,  of 
a  spirit  ever  prompting  action,  and  a  body 
incapable  of  fulfilling  its  commands  without 
suffering,  has  been  perpetual. 

Her  wri  tings  show  that  her  mind  was  wise 
ly  as  well  as  carefully  disciplined,  and  prob 
ably  her  habiis  of  composition  were  formed 
at  an  early  period.  She  published  nothing, 
however,  until  she  was  twenty  years  of  age, 
and  then  anonymously,  in  the  Literary  Ga 
zette,  and  the  newspapers.  She  wrote  Mir 
iam  only  for  amusement,  as  she  did  many 
little  poems  and  tales  which  she  destroyed. 
The  first  half  of  this  drama,  written  in  1 825, 
was  read  at  a  small  literary  party  in  Boston. 
The  author,  not  being  known,  was  present, 
and  was  encouraged  by  the  remarks  it  occa 
sioned  to  finish  it  in  the  following  summer, 
her  father  forbade  her  design  to  burn  it  ;  it 
was  read,  as  completed,  in  the  winter  of  1826, 
and  the  authorship  disclosed  ;  but  she  had 
not  courage  to  publish  it  for  several  years, 
bne  saw  its  defects  more  distinctly  than  be 
fore,  when  it  appeared  in  print,  and  resolved 


never  again  to  attempt  anything  so  long  in 
the  form  of  poetry.  Her  eyesight  failed  for 
j  four  or  five  years,  during  which  time  she  was 
almost  entirely  deprived  of  the  use  of  books, 
the  pen,  arid  what  she  says  she  most  regret 
ted,  the  needle. 

Previously  to  this,  however,  in  1831,  her 
father  had  retired  to  Worcester,  carrying  with 
him  a  library  of  some  three  thousand  volumes, 
containing  many  valuable  works  in  Latin, 
French,  and  Italian.  During  her  partial  blind 
ness,  he  read  to  her  several  hours  every  day, 
and  assisted  her  in  collecting  the  materials 
for  her  tale  of  Joanna  of  Naples,  and  for  a 
biographical  notice  of  Elizabeth  Carter,  the 
English  authoress. 

On  the  first  of  October,  1 840,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  the  Rev.  Edward  B.  Hall,  of  Provi 
dence,  Rhode  Island,  where  she  still  resides, 
too  much  interested  in  domestic  affairs,  and 
in  the  duties  which  grow  out  of  her  relation 
to  her  husband's  society,  to  bestow  much 
further  attention  upon  literature. 

Miriam  was  published  in  1837.  It  re 
ceived  the  best  approval  of  contemporary 
criticism,  and  a  second  edition,  with  such 
revision  as  the  condition  of  the  author's  eyes 
had  previously  forbidden,  appeared  in  the 
following  year.  Mrs.  Hall  had  not  proposed 
to  herself  to  write  a  tragedy,  but  a  dramatic 
poem,  and  the  result  was  an  instance  of  the 
successful  accomplishment  of  a  design,  in 
which  failure  would  have  been  but  a  repeti 
tion  of  the  experiences  of  genius.  The  sub 
ject  is  one  of  the  finest  in  the  annals  of  the 
human  race,  but  one  which  has  never  been 
treated  with  a  more  just  appreciation  of  its 
nature  and  capacities.  It  is  the  first  great 
conflict  of  the  Master's  kingdom,  after  its 
full  establishment,  with  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world.  It  is  Christianity  struggling  with  the 
first  persecution  of  power,  philosophy,  and 
the  intei  ests  of  society.  Milman  had  attempt 
ed  its  illustration  in  his  brilliant  and  stately 
tragedy  of  The  Martyr  of  Antioch;  Bulwei 
had  laid  upon  it  his  familiar  hands  in  The 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii ;  and  since,  our  coun 
tryman,  William  Ware,  has  exhibited  it  wi;h 

in 


112 


LOUISA   J.    HALL. 


prnver  and  splendor  in  his  masterly  romance 
t.f  The  Fall  of  Rome  ;  but  no  one  has  yet  ap 
proached  more  nearly  its  just  delineation 
and  analysis  than  Mrs.  Hall  in  this  beautiful 
poem. 

The  plot  is  single,  easily  understood,  and 
s'eadily  progressive  in  interest  and  in  action. 
Thrar-eno,  a  Christian  exile  from  Judea, 
dwells  with  his  family  in  Rome.  He  has 
two  children,  Euphas,  and  a  daughter  of  re 
markable  beauty  and  a  heart  and  mind  in 
which  are  blended  the  highest  attributes  of 
her  sex  and  her  religion.  She  is  seen  and 
loved  by  Paulus,  a  young  nobleman,  whose 
father,  Piso,  had  in  his  youth  served  in  the 
armies  in  Palestine.  The  passion  is  mutu 
al,  but  secret  ;  and  having  failed  to  win  the 
Roman  to  her  faith,  the  Christian  maiden 
resolves  to  part  from  him  for  ever.  The 
family  are  summoned  to  the  funeral  of  an 
aged  friend,  but  she  excuses  herself  for  not 
going,  and  the  agitation  of  her  countenance 
arrests  attention  and  leads  to  the  most  af 
fectionate  inquiries  from  Thraseno  and  Eu 
phas.  She  replies  : 

My  father  !  I  am  ill. 
A  weight  is  on  my  spirits,  and  I  feel 
The  fountain  of  existence  drying  up, 
Shrinking  I  know  not  where,  like  waters  lost 
Amid  the  desert  sands.     Nay  !  grow  riot  pale  ! 
I  have  felt  thus,  and  thought  each  secret  spring 
Of  life  was  failing  fast  within  me.     Then 
In  saddest  willingness  I  could  have  died. 
There  have  been  hours  I  would  have  quitted  you, 
And  all  that  life  hath  dear  and  beautiful, 
Without  one  wish  to  linger  in  its  smiles  : 
My  summons  would  have  called  a  weary  soul 
Out  of  a  heavy  bondage.     But  this  day 
A  better  hope  hath  dawned  upon  my  mind. 
A  high  and  pure  resolve  is  nourished  there, 
And  even  now  it  sheds  upon  my  breast 
That  holy  peace  it  hath  not  known  so  long. 
This  night — ay  !  in  a  few  brief  hours,  perchance. 
It  will  know  calm  once  more — (or  break  at  once  !) 

[Aside. 

This  is  unsatisfactory ;  their  suspicions  are 
excited,  and  they  urge  her  to  dispel  the  mys 
tery  that  invests  her  conduct.  She  says: 

I  can  not — can  not  yet. 
Have  I  not  told  you  that  a  starlike  gleam 
Was  rising  on  my  darkened  mind  ]     When  Hope 
Shall  sit  upon  the  tossing  waves  of  thought, 
As  broods  the  halcyon  on  the  troubled  deep, 
Then,  if  my  spirit  be  not  blighted,  wrecked,' 
('rushed,  by  the  storm,  I  will  unfold  my  griefs. 
But  until  then — and  long  it  will  not  be  !— 
Yet  in  that  brief,  brief  time  my  soul  must  bear 
A  fiercer,  deadlier  struggle  still ! — Ye  dear  ones ! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  but  in  your  thoughts, 


When  ye  go  forth  unto  your  evening  prayers, 
Oh,  bear  me  up  to  heaven  with  all  my  grief: 
Pray  that  my  holy  courage  may  not  fail ! 

They  renew  their  entreaties  that  she  should 
go  with  them  to  the  funeral  of  their  friend  ; 
but  she  will  carry  no  "  troubled  soul"  to  the 
"good  man's  obsequies,"  and  answers  to 
Thraseno's  inquiry  where  would  she  seek 
for  peace  ?  — 

Within  these  mighty  walls  of  sceptred  Rome 
A  thousand  temples  rise  unto  her  gods, 
Bearing  their  lofty  domes  unto  the  skies, 
Grac'd  with  the  proudest  pomp  of  earth ;  their  shrines 
Glittering  with  gems,  their  stately  colonnades, 
Their  dreams  of  genius  wrought  into  bright  forms, 
Instinct  with  grace  and  godlike  majesty, 
Their  ever  smoking  altars,  white  robed  priests, 
And  all  the  pride  of  gorgeous  sacrifice.      [ascend 
And  yet  these  things  are  naught.    Rome's  prayers 
To  greet  th'  unconscious  skies,  in  the  blue  void 
Lost  like  the  floating  breath  of  frankincense, 
And  find  no  hearing  or  acceptance  there. 
And  yet  there  is  an  Eye  that  ever  marks 
Where  its  own  people  pay  their  simple  vows, 
Though  to  the  rocks,  the  caves,  the  wilderness, 
Scourged  by  a  stern  and  ever  watchful  foe  ! 
There  is  an  Ear  that  hears  the  voice  of  prayer 
Rising  from  lonely  spots  where  Christians  meet, 
Although  it  stir  not  more  the  sleeping  air 
Than  the  soft  waterfall,  or  forest  breeze. 
Think'st  thou,  my  father,  this  benignant  God 
Will  close  his  ear,  and  turn  in  wrath  away 
From  the  poor  sinful  creature  of  his  hand, 
Who  breathes  in  solitude  her  humble  prayer  ? 
Think'st  thou  he  will  not  hear  me,  should  I  kneel 
Here  in  the  dust  beneath  his  starry  sky, 
And  strive  to  raise  my  voiceless  thoughts  to  him, 
Making  an  altar  of  my  broken  heart  1 

They  are  at  length  persuaded  to  leave  her, 
and  they  are  scarcely  gone  when  Paulus  en 
ters,  with  expressions  of  confidence  and  love, 
which  are  quickly  checked  by  the  changed 
expression  of  her  countenance: 

Paulus.  Never,  except  in  dreams,  have  I  beheld 
Such  deep  and  dreadful  meaning  in  thine  eye, 
Such  agony  upon  thy  quivering  lip ! 
Speak,  Miriam!  breathe  one  blessed  word  of  life; 
For  in  the  middle  watch  of  yesternight 
Even  thus  I  saw  a  dim  and  shadowy  ghost 
Standing  beneath  the  moon's  uncertain  light, 
So  mute — so  motionless — so  changed — and  yet 
So  like  to  thee  ! 

Miriam.  My  Paulus ! 

Paul.  'T is  thy  voice! 

Praised  be  the  gods!  it  never  seemed  so  sweet. 
Say  on !  my  spirit  hangs  upon  thy  words. 
What  blight  hath  stricken  thee  since  last  we  met! 

1//V.  A  blight  that  is  contagious,  and  will  fall 
Perchance  upon  thy  fairest,  dearest  hopes, 
With  no  less  deadly  violence  than  now 
It  hath  on  mine.     Paulus !  is  there  no  word 


LOUISA    J.   HALL. 


113 


These  lips  can  utter,  that  may  make  thee  wish 
Eternal  silence  there  had  stamped  her  seal! 
Paul.  I  know  not,  love  !    thou  startlest  me  ! — 

no  !  none ! 

Unless  it  be  of  hatred — change — or  death  ! 
And  these — it  can  be  none  of  these  ! 
Mir.   Why  not  ] 

Paul.  Ye  gods,  my  Miriam  !  look  not  on  me  thus ! 
My  blood  runs  cold.   "  Why  not,"  saidst  thou  1    Be- 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  good,  too  beautiful,    ["cause 
To  die;  and  as  for  change  or  hatred,  love, 
Not  ti  1  I  see  yon  clear  and  starry  skies 
R  lining  down  fire  and  pestilence  on  man, 
Turning  the  beauteous  earth  whereon  we  stand 
Into  an  arid,  scathed,  and  blackening  waste, 
Miriam,  will  I  believe  that  thou  canst  change. 

Mir.  Oh,  thou  art  right !  the  anguish  of  my  soul, 
My  spirit's  deep  and  rending  agony, 
Tell  me  that  though  this  heart  may  surely  break, 
There  is  no  change  within  it!  and  through  life, 
Fondly  and  wildly — though  most  hopelessly — 
With  all  its  strong  affections  will  it  cleave 
To  him  for  whom  it  nearly  yielded  all 
That  makes  life  precious — peace  and  self  esteem, 
Friends  upon  earth,  and  hopes  in  heaven  above  ! 
Paul.  Mean'st  thou — I  know  not  what.     My 

mind  grows  dark 

Amid  a  thousand  wildering  mazes  lost. 
There  is  a  wild  and  dreadful  mystery7 
Even  in  thy  words  of  love  I  can  not  solve. 

Mir.  Hear  me  :  for  with  the  holy  faith  that  erst 
Made  strong  the  shuddering  patriarch's  heart  and 

hand, 

When  meek  below  the  glittering  knife  lay  stretched 
The  boy  whose  smiles  were  sunshine  to  his  age, 
This  night  I  offer  up  a  sacrifice 
Of  life's  best  hopes  to  the  One  Living  God  ! 
Yes,  from  this  night,  my  Paulus,  never  more 
Mine  eyes  shall  look  upon  thy  form,  mine  ears 
Drink  in  the  tones  of  thy  belov.'d  voice. 

Paul.   \  e  gods  !  ye  cruel  gods  !  let  me  awake 
A.nd  find  this  but  a  dream  ! 

Mir.  Is  it  then  said  ] 

0  God  !  the  words  so  fraught  with  bitterness 
So  soon  are  uttered — and  thy  servant  lives ! 
Ay,  Paulus ;  ever  from  that  hour,  when  first 
My  spirit  knew  that  thine  was  wholly  lost, 
And  to  its  superstitions  wedded  fast, 
Shrouded  in  dark-icss,  blind  to  every  beam 
Streaming  from  Zion's  hill  athwart  the  night 
That  broods  in  horror  o'er  a  heathen  world, 
Even  from  'that  hour  my  shuddering  soul  beheld 
A  dark  and  fathom'ess  abyss  yawn  wide 
Between  us  two;  and  o'er  it  gleamed  alone 
One  pale,  dim  twink'ing  star !  the  lingering  hope 
That  grace  descending  from  the  Throne  of  Light 
Might  foil  in  gent'e  dews  upon  that  heart, 
And  melt  it  into  humlVe  piety. 
A1  as  !  that  hope  hath  faded  ;  and  I  see 
The  fatal  gu'f  of  separation  still 
Between  us,  love,  and  stretching  on  for  aye 
Beyond  the  grave  in  which  I  feel  that  soon 
This  clay  with  all  its  sorrows  shall  lie  down. 
Union  for  us  is  none,  in  yonder  sky : 
Then  how  on  earth  ?— so  in  my  inmost  soul, 


Nurtured  with  midnight  tears,  with  blighted  hopes. 

With  si  ent  watchings  and  incessant  prayers, 

A  holy  resolution-  hath  ta'en  root, 

And  in  its  might  at  last  springs  proudly  up. 

We  part,  my  Paulus !  not  in  hate,  but  love, 

Yielding  unto  a  stern  necessity. 

And  I  along  my  sad,  short  pilgrimage, 

Will  bear  the  memory  of  our  sinless  love 

As  mothers  wear  the  image  of  the  babe 

That  died  upon  their  bosom  ere  the  world 

Had  stamped  its  spotless  soul  with  good  or  ill, 

Pictured  in  infant  loveliness  and  smiles, 

Close  to  the  heart's  fond  core,  to  be  drawr.  forth 

Ever  in  solitude,  and  bathed  in  tears. — 

But  how  !  with  such  unmanly  grief  struck  down, 

Withered,  thou  Roman  knight! 

Paul.  My  brain  is  pierced  ! 

Mine  eyes  with  blindness  smitten  !  and  mine  ear 
Rings  faintly  with  the  echo  of  thy  words ! 
Henceforth  what  man  shall  ever  build  his  faith 
On  woman's  love,  on  woman's  constancy  ? — 
Maiden,  look  up !  I  would  but  gaze  once  more 
Upon  that  open  brow  and  clear,  dark  eye, 
To  read  what  aspect  Perjury  may  wear, 
What  garb  of  loveliness  may  Falsehood  use. 
To  lure  the  eye  of  guileless,  manly  love ! 
Cruel,  coM  blooded,  fickle  that  thou  art, 
Dost  thou  not  quail  beneath  thy  lover's  eye  1 
How  !  there  is  light  within  thy  lofty  glance, 
A  flush  upon  thy  cheek,  a  settled  calm 
Upon  thy  lip  and  brow  ! 

Mir.  Ay,  even  so. 

A  light — a  flush — a  calm — not  of  this  earth ! 
For  in  this  hour  of  bitterness  and  wo, 
The  grace  of  God  is  falling  on  my  soul 
Like  dews  upon  the  withering  grass  which  late 
Red  scorching  flames  have  seared.     Again 
The  consciousness  of  faith,  of  sins  forgiven, 
Of  wrath  appeased,  of  heavy  guilt  thrown  off, 
Sheds  on  my  breast  its  long  forgotten  peace, 
And  shining  steadfast  as  the  noonday  sun, 
Lights  me  along  the  path  that  duty  marks. 
Lover  too  dearly  loved !  a  long  farewell ! 
The  bannered  field,  the  glancing  spear,  the  shout 
That  bears  the  victor's  name  unto  the  skies — 
The  laurelled  brow — be  thine 

Before  the  conclusion  of  this  scene,  which  is 
full  of  natural  pathos  and  the  illustrations  of 
a  passionate  fancy,  they  are  interrupted  by 
Euphas,  who  suddenly  returns  to  inform  his 
sister  that  the  funeral  party  had  been  sur 
prised  by  a  band  of  Roman  soldiers,  some 
slain,  and  others,  among  whom  was  their 
father,  borne  to  prison.  The  indignation  of 
Euphas  is  excited  by  finding  Paulus  with 
Miriam,  and  she  answers  to  hi"  reproaches 

Stay,  stay,  rash  boy  !    Alas  ! 
The  thickening  horrors  of  this  awful  nigni 
Have  flung,  methinks,  a  spell  upon  my  soul. 
I  tell  thee,  Euphas,  thou  hast  far  more  cause, 
Proudly  to  clasp  my  breaking  heart  to  thine, 
And  bless  me  with  a  loving  brother's  praise 
Than  thus  to  stand  with  sad  but  angry  eye. 


1.14 


LOUISA    J.   HALL. 


Hurling  thy  hasty  scorn  upon  a  brow 

As  sinless  *s  thine  own — breaking  the  reed 

But  newly  bruised — pouring  coals  of  fire 

Upon  my  fresh  and  bleeding  wounds  !     Oh,  tell  me, 

What  hath  befallen  my  father  ]      Say  he  lives, 

Or  let  me  lay  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 

And  die  at  once  ! 

Euphas  answers  harshly,  nrd  by  the  aid  of  a 
body  of  Christians,  armed  for  the  emergency, 
he  seizes  Paulus  as  a  hostage,  and  gjes  to 
the  palace  of  Piso  to  claim  the  liberation  of 
Thraseno.  Miriam,  who  had  fainted  during 
this  scene,  on  her  recovery  follows  him  on 
his  hopeless  errand  ;  and  we  are  next  intro 
duced  to  the  palace,  where  the  young  Chris 
tian  is  urging,  on  the  ground  of  humanity, 
the  release  of  his  father,  in  a  manner  finely 
contrasted  with  the  contemptuous  fierceness 
of  the  hardhearted  magistrate.  Piso  is  in 
exorable,  and  Euphas  reminds  him  of  his  son, 
tells  him  that  he  is  a  hostage,  and  discloses 
his  love  for  Miriam.  The  Roman  exclaims  : 

Knowest  thou  not 

Thou  hast  but  sealed  thy  fate  1     His  life  had  been 
More  precious  to  me  than  the  air  I  breathe ; 
And  cheerfully  I  would  have  vielded  up 
A  thousand  Christian  dogs  from  yonder  dens 
To  .SIYC  one  hair  upon  his  head.     But  now — 
A  Christian  maid  !   W  ere  there  none  other  1  Gods ! 
Shame  and  a  shameful  death  be  his,  and  thine ! 

l']\i i>ft.  It  is  the  will  of  God.  My  hopes  burnt  dim 
Even  from  the  first,  and  are  extinguished  now. 
The  thirst  of  blood  hath  rudely  choked  at  last 
The  one  ailection  which  thy  dark  breast  knew, 
And  thou  art  man  no  more.     Let  me  but  die 
First  of  thy  victims 

Piso*  Would  that  she  among  them 

Where  is  the  sorceress  ]      I  fain  would  see 

The  beauty  that  hath  witched  Rome's  noblest  youth. 

J'ln/>/i.  Hers  is  a  face  thou  never  wilt  behold. 

JV.vo.  I  will.   On  her  shall  fall  my  worst  revenge; 
And  I  will  know  what  foul  and  magic  arts 

Here  Miriam  glides  in,  and  changes  the  whole 
current  of  Piso's feelings,  by  her  extraordina 
ry  resemblance  to  a  Jewess  whom  he  had 
loved  in  youth  and  never  ceased  to  lament. 
He  addresses  her  as  the  spirit  of  the  object 
of  his  early  passion : 

Beautiful  shadow  !  in  this  hour  of  wrath, 
What  dost  thou  here  1  In  life  thou  wert  too  meek, 
Too  gentle  for  a  lover  stern  as  I. 
And,  since  1  saw  thee  last,  my  days  have  been 
I  ).•<>[>  stepped  in  sill  and  blood  '  What  seekest  thou  ? 
I  have  g.mvn  old  in  strife,  and  hast  thou  come, 
With  thy  dark  eyes  and  their  soul  searching  glance, 
To  look  me  into  peace?      It  can  not  be. 
Go  back,  fair  spirit,  to  thine  own  dim  realms! 
He  wuose  young  love  thou  didst  reject  on  earth. 
May  tremble  at  this  visitation  strange, 
Hut  never  can  know  peace  or  virtue  more  ! 


Thou  wert  a  Christian,  and  a  Christian  dog 
Did  win  thy  precious  love.     I  have  good  cause 
To  hate  and  scorn  the  whole  detested  race; 
And  till  I  meet  that  man,  whom  most  of  all 
My  soul  abhors,  will  I  go  on  and  slay  ! 
Fade,  vanish,  shadow  bright !    In  vain  that  look, 
That  sweet,  sad  look  !     My  lot  is  cast  in  b!ood  ! 

Mir.  Oh,  say  not  so  ! 

Piso.  The  voice  that  won  me  first! 
Ob,  what  a  tide  of  recollections  rush 
Upon  my  drowning  soul !   my  own  wild  love — 
Thy  scorn — the  long,  long  days  of  blood  and  guilt 
That  since  have  left  their  footprints  on  my  fate  i 
The  dark,  lark  nights  of  fevered  agony, 
When,  mid  the  strife  and  struggling  of  my  dreams. 
The  gods  sent  thee  at  times  to  hover  round, 
Bringing  the  memory  of  those  peaceful  davs 
When  I  behe'd  thee  first !     But  never  yei 
Before  my  waking  eyes  hast  thou  appeared 
Distinct  and  visible  as  now.     Fair  spirit ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  ? 

Mir.  Oh,  man  of  guilt  and  wo  .' 
Thine  own  dark  fantasies  are  busy  now, 
Lending  unearthly  seeming  to  a  thing 
Of  earth,  as  thou  art. 

Piso.  How  !     Art  thou  not  she  ! 
I  know  that  face  !     I  never  yet  beheld 
One  like  to  it  among  earth's  loveliest. 
Why  dost  thou  wear  that  semblance,  if  thou  art 
A  thing  of  mortal  mould  1     Oh.  better  meet 
The  wailing  ghosts  of  those  whose  b!ood  doth  clog 
My  midnight  dreams,  than  that  half  pitying  eye ! 

Mir.  Thou  art  a  wretched  man !  and  I  do  feel 
Pity  even  for  the  suffering  guilt  hath  brought. 
But  from  the  quiet  grave  I  have  not  come. 
Nor  from  the  shadowy  confines  of  the  world 
Where  spirits  dwell,  to  haunt  thy  midnight  hour 
The  disembodied  should  be  passionless, 
And  wear  not  eyes  that  swim  in  earthborn  tears, 
As  mine  do  now.  Look  up,  thou  conscience  struck ! 

Piso.  Off!  off!   She  touched  me  with  her  damp 

cold  hand, 

But  'twas  a  hand  of  flesh  and  blood  !    Away  ! 
Come  thou  not  near  me  till  I  study  thee. 

Mir.  Why  are  thine  eyes  so  fixed  and  wild  1 — 

thy  lips 

Convulsed  and  ghastly  white  1     Thine  own  dark 
Vexing  thy  soul,  have  clad  me  in  a  form       [sina, 
Thou  darest  not  look  upon — I  know  not  why. 
But  I  must  speak  to  thee.     Mid  thy  remorse, 
And  the  unwonted  terrors  of  thy  soul, 
I  must  be  heard,  for  God  hath  sent  me  here. 

PifO.  Who,  who  hath  sent  thee  here  1 

Mir.  The  Christian's  God, 
The  God  thou  knowest  not. 

7V.w.  Thou  art  of  earth  ! 
I  see  the  rose  tint  on  thy  pallid  cheek, 
Which  was  not  there  at  first:  it  kindles  fast! 
Say  on.     Although  I  dare  not  meet  that  eye, 
I  hear  thee. 

Mir.  HK  hath  given  me  strength, 
And  led  me  safely  through  the  broad,  lone  streets 
Even  at  the  midnight  hour.     My  heart  sunk  not 
My  noiseless  foot  paced  on  unfaltering 
Through  the  long  colonnades,  where  stood  aloft 


LOUISA   J.    HALL. 


Pa'e  gods  and  goddesses  on  either  hand, 
Bending  their  sightless  eyes  on  me  !  by  founts, 
Waking  with  ceaseless  plash  the  midnight  air! 
Through  moonlit  squares,  where,  ever  and  anon, 
Flashed  from  some  dusky  nook  the  red  torchlight, 
Flung  on  my  path  by  passing  reveller. 
And  HK  hath  brought  me  here  before  thy  face ; 
And  it  was  HE  who  smote  thee  even  now 
With  a  strange,  nameless  fear. 

Piso.  Girl !  name  it  not. 

I  dee. ned  I  looked  on  one  whose  bright  young  face 
First  glanced  on  me  mid  the  shining  leaves 
Of  a  green  bower  in  sunny  Palestine, 
In  my  youth's  prime.     I  knew  the  dust, 
The  grave's  corroding  dust,  had  soiled 
That  spotless  brow  long  since.     A  shadow  fell 
Upon  the  soul  that  never  yet  knew  fear. 
But  it  is  past.     Earth  holds  not  what  I  dread ; 
And  what  the  gods  did  make  me,  am  I  now. 
What  soekest  thou  1 

Euph.  Miriam  !  go  thou  hence. 
Why  shouldst  thou  die  ] 

Mr.  Brother! 

Piso.  Ha !  is  this  so  1 

Now,  by  the  gods  ! — Bar,  bar  the  gates,  ye  slaves  ! 
If  they  escape  me  now — Why,  this  is  good  ! 
I  had  not  deemed  of  hap  so  glorious. 
She  that  beguiled  my  son  !  his  sister ! 

Mir.  Peace  ! 
Na-ne  not,  with  tongue  unhallowed,  love  like  ours. 

Pro.  Thou  art  her  image;  and  the  mystery 
Confounds  my  purposes.     Take  other  form, 
Foul  sorceress,  and  I  will  baffle  thee  ! 

Mir.  I  have  no  other  form  than  this  God  gave  ; 
And  he  alrcidy  hath  stretched  forth  his  hand, 
And  touched  it  for  the  grave. 

Piso.  It  is  most  strange. 
Is  not  the  air  around  her  full  of  spells? 
Give  me  the  son  thou  hast  seduced  ! 

M'r.  Hear,  Piso ! 

Th ;  sjn  hath  seen  me,  loved  me,  and  hath  won 
A  h?art  too  prone  to  worship  nob'.e  things, 
Although  of  earth;  and  he,  alas!  was  earth's. 
I  strove,  I  prayed  in  vain.     In  a  I  things  else 
I  might  have  stirred  his  soul's  best  purposes ; 
But  for  the  pure  and  cheering  faith  of  Christ, 
The:e  was  no  entrance  in  that  iron  soul. 
And  I — amid  such  hopes,  despair  arose, 
And  laid  a  withering  hand  upon  my  heart. 
I  feel  it  yet  !      We  parted.     Ay,  this  night 
We  met  to  meet  no  more. 

E\if)h.  Sister  !  my  tears — 
They  choke  my  words — else — 

Mir.  Euphas,  thou  wert  wroth 
When  there  was  litt'e  cause ;  I  loved  thee  more. 
Thy  very  frowns  in  such  a  holy  cause 
Were  beautiful.     The  scorn  of  virtuous  youth, 
Looking  on  fancied  sin,  is  noble. 

Pi*u.  Maid! 

Hath,  then,  my  son  withstood  thy  witchery, 
And  on  this  ground  ye  parted  ] 

Mr.  It  is  so. 
Alas  !  that  I  rejoice  to  tell  it  thee. 

Pffo.  IN  ay, 
Well  thou  mayst,  foi  it  hath  wrought  his  pardon. 


That  he  had  loved  thee  would  have  been  a  sin 

Too  full  of  degradation — infamy, 

Had  not  these  cold  and  ag'  d  eyes  themselves 

Beheld  thee  in  thy  loveliness  !     And  yet,  bold  girl ! 

Think  not  thy  Jewish  beauty  is  the  spell 

That  works  on  one  grown  old  in  deeds  of  blood. 

I  have  looked  calmly  on  when  eyes  as  bright 

Were  drowned  in  tears  of  hitter  agony, 

When  forms  as  full  of  grace  and  pride,  perchance, 

Were,  writhing  in  the  sharpness  of  their  pain, 

And  cheeks  as  fair  were  mangled — 

Euph.  Tyrant !  cease. 

•Wert  thou  a  fiend,  such  brutal  boasts  as  these 
Were  not  for  ears  like  hers  ! 

Mir.  I  tremble  not. 

He  spake  of  pardon  for  his  guiltless  son, 
And  that  includeth  life  for  those  I  love. 
What  need  I  more  1 

Euph.  Let  us  go  hence  at  once.     Piso  ! 
Bid  thou  thy  myrmidons  unbar  the  gates, 
That  shut  our  friends  from  light  and  air. 

Piso.  Not  yet, 

My  haughty  boy,  for  we  have  much  to  say 
Ere  you  two  pretty  birds  go  free.     Chafe  not ! 
Ye  are  caged  close,  and  can  but  flutter  here 
Till  I  am  satisfied. 

Mir.  How  !  hast  thou  changed — • 

PifO.  Nay ;  but  I  must  detain  ye  till  I  ask — 

Mir.  Detain  us  if  thou  wilt.     But  look — 

Pifo.  At  what  1 

Mir.  There,  through  yon  western  arch ! — the 

moon  sinks  low. 

The  mists  already  tinge  her  orb  with  blood.  - 
Methinks  I  feel  the  breeze  of  morn  e'en  now. 
Knowest  thou  the  hour  1 

Piso.  I  do ;  but  one  thing  more 
I  fain  would  know ;  for,  after  this  wild  night, 
Let  me  no  more  behold  you.     Why  didst  thou, 
Bold,  dark-haired  boy,  wear  in  those  pleading  eyes, 
When  thou  didst  name  thy  boon,  an  earnest  look 
That  fell  familiar  on  my  soul  1     And  thou, 
The  lofty,  calm,  and  oh,  most  beautiful ! 
Why  are  not  only  that  soul-searching  glance, 
But  e'en  thy  features  and  thy  silver  voice, 
So  like  to  hers  I  loved  long  years  ago, 
Beneath  Judea's  palms  ?     Whence  do  ye  come  ? 
Mir.  For  me,  I  bear  my  own  dear  mother's  brow ; 
Her  eye,  her  form,  her  very  voice,  are  mine. 
So,  in  his  tears,  my  father  oft  hath  said. 
We  lived  beneath  Judea's  shady  palms, 
Until  that  saintlike  mother  faded,  drooped, 
And  died.     Then  hither  came  we  o'er  the  waves, 
And  till  this  night  have  worshipped  faithfully 
The  one,  true,  living  God,  in  secret  peace. 

Piso.  Thou  art  her  child  !   I  could  not  harm  theo 
Oh,  wonderful !  that  things  so  long  forgot —   [now. 
A  love  I  thouzht  so  crushed  and  trodden  down, 
E'en  by  the  iron  tread  of  passions  wild — 
Ambition,  pride,  and,  worst  of  all,  revenge — 
Revenue,  that  hath  shed  seas  of  Christian  blood ! 
To  think  this  heart  was  once  so  waxen  soft, 
And  then  congealed  so  hard,  that  naught  of  ill 
Which  hath  been  since  could  ever  have  the  powei 
To  wear  away  the  image  of  that  girl — 
That  fair  young  Christian  girl !    T  was  a  wild  love 


116 


LOUISA   J.    HALL. 


But  I  was  young,  a  soldier  in  strange  lands, 
And  she,  in  very  gentleness,  said  nay 
So  timidly,  I  hoped—  until,  ye  gods ! 
She  loved  another  !      Yet  I  slew  him  not ! 
I  fled.     Oh,  had  I  met  him  since ! 

A';/////.  Come,  sister ! 
The  hours  wear  on. 

Piso.  Ye  shall  go  forth  in  joy — 
And  take  with  you  you  prisoners.     Send  my  son, 
Him  whom  she  did  not  hear — home  to  these  arms, 
And  gj  ye  out  of  Rome  with  all  your  train. 
I  will  shed  hlood  no  more ;  for  I  have  known 
What  sort  of  peace  deep  glutted  vengeance  brings. 
My  son  is  brave,  but  of  a  gentler  mind 
Than  I  have  been.     His  eyes  shall  never  more 
Be  grieved  with  sight  of  sin'ess  blood  poured  forth 
From  tortured  veins.     Go  forth,  ye  gentle  two  ! 
Children  of  her  who  might  perhaps  have  poured 
Her  own  meek  spirit  o'er  my  nature  stern, 
Since  the  bare  image  of  her  buried  charms, 
Soft  gleaming  from  your  youthful  brows,  hath  power 
To  stir  my  spirit  thus  !     But  go  ye  forth  ! 
Ye  leave  an  altered  and  a  milder  man 
Than*  him  ye  sought.     Tell  Paulus  this, 
To  quicken  his  young  steps. 

Mir.  Now  may  the  peace 
That  follows  just  and  worthy  deeds,  he  thine  ! 
And  may  deep  truths  be  born,  mid  thy  remorse, 
In  the  recesses  of  thy  soul,  to  make 
That  soul  even  yet  a  shrine  of  holiness. 

Euph.  Piso,  how  shall  we  passyon  steelclad  men, 
Keeping  stern  vigil  round  the  dungeon  gate  1 

Piso.  Take  ye  my  well  known  ring — and  here, 

the  list — 
Ay,  this  is  it,  methinks :  show  these — Great  gods  ! 

Euph.  What  is  there  on  yon  scroll  which  shakes 
him  thus  ] 

Mir.  A  name,  at  which  he  points  with  stiffening 
And  eyeballs  full  of  wrath  !  Alas!  alas!  [hand, 
I  guess  loo  well. — My  brother,  droop  thou  not. 

Piso.  Your  father,  did  ye  say  ]  Was  it  his  life 
Ye  came  to  beg  ] 

Mir.  His  life ;  but  not  alone 
Tlu-  life  so  dear  to  us;  for  he  hath  friends 
Sharing  his  fetters  and  his  final  doom. 

Piso.  Little  reck  I  of  them.    Tell  me  his  name. ! 

[ A  pause. 
Speak,  boy,  or  I  will  tear  thee  piecemeal ! 

Mir.  Stay, 

Stern  son  of  violence !  the  name  thou  askest 
Is — is — Thraseno  ! 

Piso.  Well  I  knew  it,  girl ! 
Now,  by  the  gods,  had  I  not  been  entranced, 
I  sooner  had  conjectured  this.     Foul  name ! 
Thus  do  I  tear  thee  out,  and  even  thus 
Rend  with  my  teeth  !     Oh,  rage  !  she  wedded  him, 
And  ever  since  that  hated  name  hath  been 

The  voice  of  serpents  in  mine  ear  !     But  now 

Why  go  ye  not?  Here  is  your  list:  and  all, 
Ay,  every  one  whose  name  is  here  set  down, 
Will  my  good  guards  forthwith  release  you. 

Mir.  Piso! 

In  mercy  mock  us  not!  children  of  her 
Whom  thou  didst  love • 

Piso.  Ay,  maid,  but  ye  are  his 


\   Whom  1  do  hate  !     That  chord  is  broken  now — 
Its  music  hushed.     Is  she  not  in  her  grave, 
And  he  within  my  grasp  1 

Mir.  Where  is  thy  peace, 
Thy  penitence  ] 

Pi,so.  Fled  all — a  moonbeam  brief 
Upon  a  stormy  sea.     That  magic  name 
Hath  roused  the  wild,  loud  winds  again.    Begone ! 
Save  whom  ye  may. 

M!.r.  Piso  !  I  go  not  hence 
Until  rny  father's  name  be  on  this  scroll. 

Puo.  Take  root,  then,  where  thou  art !  for  by 
I  swear [dark  Styx 

Mir.  Nay,  swear  thou  not,  till  I  am  heard. 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  son  1 

Piso.  No  !  let  him  die, 
So  that  I  have  my  long  deferred  revenge. 
Thy  lip  grows  pale  !    Art  thou  not  answered  now  ? 

Mir.  Deep  horror  falls  upon  me  !     Can  it  be 
Such  demon  spirits  dwell  on  earth  1 

Piso.  Bold  maiden, 

While  thou  art  safe,  go  hence ;  for  in  his  might 
The  tiger  wakes  within  me  ! 

Mir.  Be  it  so. 

He  can  but  rend  me  where  I  stand.     And  here, 
Living  or  dying,  will  I  raise  my  voice 
In  a  firm  hope  !     The  God  that  brought  me  here 
Is  round  me  in  the  silent  air.     On  me 
Falleth  the,  influence  of  an  unseen  eye ! 
And  in  the  strength  of  secret,  earnest  prayer, 
This  awful  consciousness  doth  nerve  my  frame. 
Thou  man  of  evil  and  ungoverned  soul ! 
My  father  thou  mayst  slay  !     Flames  will  not  fall 
From  heaven  to  scorch  and  wither  thee  !  The  earth 
Will  gape  not  underneath  thy  feet !  and  peace, 
Mock,  hollow,  seeming  peace,  may  shadow  still 
Thy  home  and  hearth  !    B  ut  deep  within  thy  breast 
A  fierce,  consuming  fire  shall  ever  dwell. 
Each  night  shall  ope  a  gulf  of  horrid  dreams 
To  swallow  up  thy  soul.     The  livelong  day 
That  soul  shall  yearn  for  peace  and  quietness, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks,          • 
And  know  that  even  in  death  is  no  repose ! 
And  this  shall  be  thy  life.     Then  a  dark  hour 
Will  surely  come 

Piso.  Maiden,  be  warned  !     All  this 
I  know.     It  moves  me  not. 

Mir.  Nay,  one  thing  more 

Thou  knowest  not.     There  is  on  all  this  earth — 
Full  as  it  is  of  young  and  gentle  hearts — 
One  man  alone  that  loves  a  wretch  like  thee ; 
And  he,  thou  sayest,  must  die  !     All  other  eyes 
Do  greet  thee  with  a  cold  or  wrathful  look, 
Or,  in  the  baseness  of  their  fear,  shun  thine ! 
And  he  whose  loving  glance  alone  spake  peace, 
Thou  say'st  must  die  in  youth  !    Thou  know'st  not 
The  deep  and  bitter  sense  of  loneliness,  [yet 

The  throes  and  uchings  of  a  childless  heart, 
Which  yet  will  all  be  thine  !    Thou  know'st  not  yet 
What  'tis  to  wander  mid  thy  spacious  halls, 
And  find  them  desolate !  wildly  to  start 
From  thy  deep  musings  at  the  distant  sound 
Of  voice  or  step  like  his,  and  sink  back  sick — 
Ay,  sick  at  heart — with  dark  remembrances  ! 
To  dream  thou  seest  him  as  in  years  fjone  by 


LOUISA   J.    HALL. 


11? 


When  in  his  bright  and  joyous  infancy, 
His  laughing  eyes  amid  thick  curls  sought  thine, 
And  his  soft  arms  were  twined  around  thy  neck, 
And  his  twin  rosebud  lips  just  lisped  thy  name — 
Yet  feel  in  agony  'tis  but  a  dream  ! 
Thou  knowest  not  yet  what  'tis  to  lead  the  van 
Of  armies  hurrying  on  to  victory, 
Yet,  in  the  pomp  and  glory  of  that  hour, 
/Sadly  to  miss  the  we'.l  known  snowy  plume, 
Whereon  thine  eyes  were  ever  proudly  iixed 
In  battle  field  ! — to  sit,  at  midnight  deep, 
Alone  within  thy  tent— all  shuddering — 
When,  as  the  curtained  door  lets  in  the  breeze, 
Thy  fancy  conjures  up  the  gleaming  arms 
And  bright  young  hero  face  of  him  who  once 
Had  been  most  welcome  there  !  and  worst  of  all — 

Pi&o.  It  is  enough  !     The  gift  of  prophecy 
Is  on  thee,  maid  !     A  power  that  is  not  thine 
Looks  out  from  that  dilated,  awful  form — 
Those  eyes  deep  flashing  with  unearthly  light — 
And  stills  my  soul.     My  Paulus  must  not  die ! 
And  yet— to  give  up  thus  the  boon ! 

Mir.  What  boon? 

A  boon  of  blood  ? — To  him,  the  good  old  man, 
Death  is  not  terrible,  but  only  seems 
A  dark,  short  passage  to  a  land  of  light, 
Where,  mid  high  ecstasy,  he  shall  behold 
Th'  unshrouded  glories  of  his  Maker's  face, 
And  learn  all  mysteries,  and  gaze  at  last 
Upon  th'  ascended  Prince,  and  never  more 
Know  grief  or  pain,  or  part  from  those  he  loves ! 
Yet  will  his  blood  cry  loudly  from  the  dust, 
And  bring  deep  vengeance  on  his  murderer ! 

Piso.  My  Paulus  must  not  die!   Let  me  revolve  : 
Maiden,  thy  words  have  sunk  into  my  soul ; 
Yet  would  I  ponder  ere  I  thus  lay  down 
A  purpose  cherished  in  my  inmost  heart, 
That  which  hath  been  my  dream  by  night — by  day 
My  life's  sole  aim.     Have  I  not  deeply  sworn, 
Long  years  ere  thou  wert  born,  that  should  the  gods 
E'er  give  him  to  my  rage — and  yet  I  pause  1 — 


Shall  Christian  vipers  sting  mine  only  son, 
And  I  not  crush  them  into  nothingness  1 
Am  I  so  pinioned,  vain,  and  powerless  1 
Work,  busy  brain !  thy  cunning  must  not  fail. 

[Retires. 

The  tyrant  promises  to  restore  Thraseno  to 
his  children,  and  the  scene  changes  to  where 
Paulus  is  awaiting  the  result.  The  long  so 
liloquy  in  which  he  expresses  his  varying 
moods  reminds  us  somewhat  too  much  of 
the  sombre  reveries  of  Manfred,  though  its 
original  conceptions  illustrate  a  power  equal 
to  its  independent  composition. 

Piso  but  keeps  the  word  of  his  last  prom 
ise,  for  only  the  dead  body  of  Thraseno  is 
restored  to  Euphas  and  Miriam.  Paulus,  in 
horror,  renounces  his  parent  and  his  religion, 
and,  while  a  dirge  is  sung  over  the  martyr, 
Miriam  dies. 

The  fine  and  poetical  spirit  which  pervades 
the  poem  is  sufficiently  apparent  in  these  ex 
tracts.  There  is  in  parts  a  slight  want  of 
keeping,  and  it  may  be  that  the  tone  is  gen 
erally  too  oratorical,  though  the  incidents 
justify  almost  throughout  the  work  a  certain 
dignity  of  expression,  and  the  youthful  ages 
of  the  chief  characters  make  appropriate  a 
more  ornate  style  than  would  befit  a  greater 
maturity  of  life. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Mrs.  Hall  per 
haps  the  best  is  a  Dramatic  Sketch,  in  The 
Token,  for  1839.  There  has  been  no  collec 
tion  of  her  fugitive  pieces,  and  it  is  probable 
that  I  have  seen  too  few  of  them  to  form  an 
intelligent  estimate  of  their  character. 


JUSTICE  AND  MERCY. 

I  SAW  in  my  dream  a  countless  throng 
By  a  mighty  whirlwind  hurried  along, 

Hurried  along  through  boundless  space 
WTith  a  fearful,  onward,  rushing  sweep, 
Looking  like  beings  roused  from  sleep, 

Till  they  met  their  Maker  face  to  face. 

Then,  consciousness  waked  in  each  dark  eye, 
The  mercy  seat  shone  above  on  high, 

And  a  timid,  wild,  but  hopeful  gaze 
Those  wandering  spirits  upward  cast, 
As  it  they  had  cause  of  joy  at  last, 

When  they  saw  the  throne  of  judgment  blaze. 

"Justice!"  they  cried,  with  sound  so  clear, 
The  stars  of  the  universe  needs  must  hear ; 

"Justice!"  ag:iin,  again  rang  out, 
As  of  those  who  felt  the  hour  had  come 
\\  hen  earth-choked  lips  should  no  more  be  dumb, 

An.l  all  God's  worlds  must  hear  their  shout. 


They  were  the  souls  of  myriad  men 

Who  had  died,  and  none  cared  how  or  when, 

Who  had  dwelt  on  earth  as  slaves — as  slaves ! 
They  were  the  men  by  death  set  free, 

And  flocking  they  came  from  their  million  graves, 
They  who  on  earth  had  scarce  dared  be, 

Shaking  the  bonds  from  their  half-crushed  souls, 

Uttering  a  cry  that  rent  the  poles, 
For  they  knew  that  God  would  hear  them  then. 

And  afar  I  beheld  a  smaller  band, 

With  hands  claspt-d  over  their  downcast  eyes, 
For  before  the  blaze  they  could  not  stand. 

And  away  had  fallen  their  robes  of  lies. 
Naked,  affrighted,  pierced  with  light, 

They  knew  themselves  and  their  deeds  at  las< 
From  their  quivering  lips  to  the  throne  of  Right 

A  faint  low  cry  of  "  Mercy  !"  passed. 

Justice  and  Mercy  !  hear  them  both  ' 
Bondman  and  master  both  are  here ; 

Each  asketh  that  he  needeth  most. 

Now  pass  from  my  soul,  thou  dream  of  feai  i 


H8 


LOUISA    J.   HALL. 


A  DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT. 

CHARACTERS. 

KING   HENKYTHK   SKVK.VTH. 
I.AHV   CATUKIUNK.  the  K'i/1-  <jf  1'erkia  Warheck. 
Cr,AKA,  her  AlUinlunt. 
SIK   FI.OIUAN,  n  l-'r,f,,,l  "f  1',-rkin  Wurheck. 

I  Catttt  n,t  ik,   SeaeooM,  in  Cornwall. 
Ttine.—  T/tc  Autumn  of  the  year  1499. 

r.ADY  CATHKKINE  and  CLARA. 

Lad//  C.    OPEX  that  casement  toward  the  sea, 
I  gaze  in  vain  along  the  hilly  waste,      [my  Clara. 
Watching  the  lone  and  solitary  road 
Until  mine  eyes  are  strained.     The  dull  day  wanes, 
The  sad  November  day — and  yet  there  come 
No  ridings  from  niv  lord  !      Ay,  that  is  well ! 
Sit  thou  where  I  have  sat  these  many  hours 
In  patience  sorrowful ;  and  summon  me 
\Vit!i  a  most  joyous  cry,  if  thy  kind  watch 
Be  more  successful.     Sea  !  for  ever  tossing, 
Thv  very  motion  is  so  beautiful, 
So  wild  and  spirit-stirring,  as  I  turn 
From  the  bleait,  changeless  moor,  a  1  desolate, 
I  b'ess  each  wave  that  breaks  against  yon  cliff. 
Oh,  mighty  ocean  !  thou  art  free — art  free ! 
Dash  high,  thou  foamy-crested  billow,  high ! 
That  was  a  leap,  whica  sent  the  snowy  spray 
Up  to  yon  overhanging  crag,  and  forth 
The  screaming  sea-bird  sprang  rejoicingly. 
Clara,  do  not  forget  thy  watch. 

Clara.  Nay,  lady, 

Return  not  yet ;  thou  shalt  have  warning  swift, 
If  but  a  lonely  traveller  tread  the  heath. 

Ludy  C    Yes  :  I  will  trust  thee,  and  again  look 
Upon  the  glorious  sea.   In  my  youth's  prime  [forth 
Is  it  not  strange  I  thus  should  love  to  gaze 
On  a  \vi;d  ocean-view  and  frowning  skv  ] 
Oh,  sorrow,  fear,  and  dark  suspense,  what  change 
Ye  work  in  brief — brief  space  on  careless  hearts ! 
Methinka  it  was  not  many  months  ago 
Childhood  was  round  me  with  its  rainbow  dreams; 
Then  came  the  glittering  vision  of  a  court, 
Dear  Scut  aim's  court,  where  on  my  bridal  hour 
A  uracious  monarch  smiled,  and  silently 
Time  stole  the  wings  of  love.  My  husband  !  dearest! 
Our  happy  hours  were  few.     The  echoes  still 
Rang  back  the  harp's  sweet  nuptial  melody, 
When  came  a  fearful  voice,  I  scarce  knew  whence — 
But  terrible,  oh  terrible  it  was! 
The  dew  scarce  dry  upon  the  snowy  rose 
I  wore  that  morn,  when  it  was  wet  afresh 
With  tears  of  parting  !      'T  was  but  for  a  time, 
He  said,  and  we  should  meet  again.     My  heart 
(Min ITS  to  the  promise  sweet — "  We  meet  again  ;" 
But  when,  oh  when  ]      Ye  vain  remembrances! 
Depart.     Let  me  survey  the  heath  once  more. 
The  ocean  hvc/.r  lias  fanned  the  pain  away 
From  my  hot  brow,  and  now  it  wearies  me 
To  look  upon  those  restless  waves.     Their  roar 
Comes  faintly  up  from  yonder  wet.  black  rocks, 
Monotonous  uiul  hoarse;   the  mighty  clouds 
Sweep  endless  o'er  the  heavens ;  I  am  sad, 
And  all  things  saddi-M  me.      They '1!  s,-t  him  free, 
They  sure  y  will,  my  Clara!   thou  hast  said  it 
Full  twenty  times  this  day,  and  yet  again 
I  fair,  would  hear  such  empty  words  of  cheer. 


What  is  yon  speck  upon  the  dusky  neatn? 
Look — look  ! 

Clara.  I  have  been  watching  it,  dear  lady : 
'T  is  but  a  lonely  tree. 

Lady  C.  No,  no,  it  moves. 
My  heart's  so.icitude  doth  give  me  sight 
Keener  than  thine  :  it  moves  ;  it  comes  this  way. 
What  may  its  form  and  bearing  be  1     It  nears 
Yon  pile  of  rocks.     Clara,  such  speed  denotes 
A  horseman  fleet.    Peace,  heart !  throb  not  so  fast 

Clara.  The  gray  rnist  settles  down  and  mocka 
It  is  a  peasant,  toiling  through  the  furze,  [thine  eye. 

Lady  C.  Nay,  'tis  a  mounted  knight !  yon  hil- 
Thou  wilt  descry  him  plain.  [lock  passed, 

Clara.  'T  is  so  !  he  rides — 
He  rides  for  life.     Is 't  not  the  jet-black  steed 
Sir  Floriari  mounts  ] 

Lady  C.  It  is  my  husband's  friend  ! 
'T  is  he  that  rushes  on  with  such  mad  haste. 
Tidings  at  last — oh,  Clara,  I  am  faint.          [comes 

Clara.  Be  calm,  my  much-tried  mistress ;  joy  still 
Close  upon  apprehension. 

Lady  C.  Is  it  so  1 
I  can  not  tell.    Would  bad  news  spur  him  thus  1 

Cl'tra.  Believe  me,  no.     Be  calm. 

Lady  C.  I  will— I  will. 
Is  he  not  here  1  he 's  wondrous  slow,  methinks. 

Clara.  The  noble  charger's  spent ;  his  smoking 
Are  flecked  with  foam,  and  every  gallant  leap  [sides 
Seems  as  'twould  be  his  last.  Why  doth  his  rider 
Cast  back  such  troubled  glances  o'er  the  moor  1 
Now  to  the  ground  he  springs;  the  brave  steed  drops 
Lady,  look  up  !  Sir  Florian  is  at  hand. 


Sir  F.  Where  is  the  lady  Catherine  ?   Oh,  away  ! 
Fly  for  your  life  ! 

Lady  C.  Fly  1  and  from  whom  ?  or  why  1 

Sir  F.  Question  me  not :  I  do  conjure  you,  fly ! 
The  danger's  imminent; — moments  are  precious; 
Down  to  the  beach  :  take  boat  without  delay. 
It  is  your  husband's  bidding. 

Lady  C.  Oh,  thank  Heaven 
For  those  two  words  !     Am  I  to  meet  him,  then  1 

Sir  F.  No,  ladv,  no !  but  I  have  been  delayed, 
Crossed,  intercepted,  and  well  nigh  cut  off, 
Till  on  a  moment's  grace  your  life  depends. 
The  king  pursues. 

Lady  C.  The  king !  in  mercy  say, 
Where  is  my  husband  ] 

Sir  F.  London  Tower  held  still 
The  princely  wanderer,  when  the  rumor  came 
That  Henry's  wrath  burnt  hot  'gainst  thee,  sweet 
A  nd  that  the  p'  ace  of  thy  retreat  was  known,  [lady, 
Fly  !   't  is  thy  husband's  word. 

Lady  C.  Imprisoned  still ! 
Take  rne  to  London,  noble  Florian.     Nay, 
How  can  I  live  but  in  that  same  dark  Tower, 
Where  they  have  pinioned  down  my  gallant  lord, 
My  noble,  much-wronged  lord  1     Not  yet  set  free  '.' 
He  hath  been  pardoned  once,  if  men  told  true. 

Sir  F.  Come,  fair  and  most  unhappy  ! 

Luili/  C.  I  have  heard 
Such  fearful  tales  of  bloody  murders  done 
In  the  mysterious  circuit  of  those  walls ! 
What,  didst  thou  leave  him  well  ? 


LOUISA   J.    HALL. 


Sir  F.  In  truth  I  did, 

Though  somewhat  wan  and  wasted  ;  anxious,  too, 
For  thy  most  precious  life.  Come,  I  conjure  thee  ! 

Cla.  There  is  a  strange  and  hollow  sound  abroad. 
'T  is  not  the  sea  ! 

Sir  F.  No,  nor  the  sweeping  wind. 
It  is  the  tramp  of  steeds  fast  galloping !          [now 

Cla.  They  come  !  like  mounted  giants  looming 
Through  the  dim  mist. 

Sir  F.  She 's  lost !     Why  lingered  1 1       [now 

Cla.  Quick  !  there  is  time  ;  our  startled  menials 
Bar  fast  the  outer  doors  :  yon  staircase  leads 
Down  through  a  vaulted  passage  to  the  shore. 
Sti.l  motionless,  sweet  mistress] 

Lady  C.  Was  he  worn 
And  pale,  saidst  thou  1     Truly  I  do  rejoice 
The  king  draws  nigh,  for  on  my  bended  knees 
Will  I  entreat  to  share  my  husband's  cell. 

Cla.  She  is  distraught. 

Sir  F.  Most  gracious  lady,  list ! 
It  is  your  blood  this  haughty  monarch  seeks 
And  with  a  vow  against  the  innocent 
His  soul  is  burdened;  do  not  wildly  dream 
That  he  will  pity  thee :  and  for  thy  lord 

Lady  C.  Pause  not ;  I  do  conjure  thee,  speak ! 

Sir  F.  He  hath  been  tried,  condemned 

Lady  C.  And  slain  ] 

Cla.  That  shriek 
Doth  guide  them  hither. 

Sir  F.  Nay,  he  lives  as  yet, 
But  vainly 

Lady  C.  Oh,  God  bless  thee  for  that  word ! 
He  lives  !     Monarch  of  England,  come  ! 

Cla.  Hark,  hark ! 
That  crash — the  doors  are  burst ! 

Sir  F.  Her  doom  is  sealed. 

Enter  KING  HENRY  unit  Atte.ndtnas. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  in  time :  the  bird  hath  riot  es 
caped. 

Those  hoof-tracks  made  me  fear  some  traitor  fleet 
Had  warned  her  from  the  nest.  Ha,  frowning  youth, 
Whence  comest  thou  1  What  may  thine  errand  be, 
That  brought  thee  hither  in  such  furious  haste  1 

SirF.  Thou  well  mightst  guess:  'twas  from  thy 

bloody  fangs 

I  vainly  hoped  one  victim  to  withdraw. 
She  chose  to  trust  thy  clemency — alas  !     [tongue 

K.  Hen.  Alas,  indeed  !  bold  heart  is  thine,  and 
As  bold.    But  garb  so  travel-stained,  fair  sir, 
Fits  not  a  lady's  bower;  and  thou 'It  not  love, 
Perchance,  to  fix  that  pity-beaming  eye 
Upon  my  deeds  of  clemency.     Take  hence 
This  youthful  rebel,  and  let  manacles 
Bind  those  officious  hands. 

[Exit  SIR  F  LORI  AX  with  two  Officers. 

Now  for  our  work. 

We  will  survey  this  far-famed  Scottish  lily, 

Ere  the  sharp  steel  do  crop  its  drooping  head. 

Indeed,  she 's  wondrous  fair  !     Hast  thou  no  voice, 

Pale  suppliant  1     Its  music  must  be  rich, 

And  e'en  more  eloquent  than  those  clasped  hands, 

That  sweet,  imploring  face.  Speak,  for  thy  moments 

Flit  into  nothingness,  and  if  thou  hast 

One  last  petition  for  thy  dying  hour 

Lady  C.  My  husband,  gracious  king ! 


K.  Hen.  What,  art  thou  mad  1  [hence 

Lady  C.  Let  me  but  see  his  face  !  oh,  drag  me 
With  scorn  and  vio'ence  to  share  his  doom, 
And  I  will  bless  thy  name. 

K.  Hen.  She  hath  gone  wild 
With  sudden  terror.    He 's  condemned,  sweet  lady 
To  die  a  shameful  death,-  and  thou  this  hour — 
This  very  hour — must  perish  in  thy  youth. 
So  bids  my  needful  policy.     Thinkest  thou 
Of  aught  but  precious  life,  with  such  a  fate 
Darkening  around  thee,  fair  one  ]     Now,  ask  aught 
But  life — 

Lady  C.  Life,  life,  mere  breath !  and  what  is  that] 
Take  it,  my  sovereign !     He  who  gave  it  me 
Will  call  my  spirit  home  to  heaven  and  peace, 
When  this  poor  dust  lies  low.     I  have  no  prayer 
To  offer  for  my  wretched  life,  if  joy 
Lie  dead  and  buried  in  my  husband's  grave. 
Is  there  no  mercy  for  my  gallant  lord  ] 
Crowned  monarch,  speak !  what  can  thy  mightiness 
Grant  thee  beyond  the  holy  power  to  bless  ] 

K.  Hen.  I  must  be  stern  in  words  as  well  as  deeds. 
I  charge  thee,  if  thou  hast  a  last  request — 
A  dying  message  to  the  noble  house 
Whence  thou  art  sprung 

Lady  C.  My  home — forsaken  home  ! 
It  was  for  him  I  left  the  heathy  hills 
Of  my  own  Scotland  ;  there  we  had  not  perished 
Thus  in  life's  early  bloom.     May  blessings  rest 
On  the  old  quiet  castle,  and  each  head 
Its  gray  roof  shelters !     How  those  ancient  halls 
Will  ring  a  wild  lament,  when  comes  the  tale 
That  England's  broken  faith  had  widowed  me, 
And  laid  me,  all  unmourned,  in  English  dust ! 
Thy  fame,  proud  king,  thy  fame 

K.  Hen.  Ha !  dost  thou  dare 
Breathe  such  reproach  1  Hear,  then,  unthinking  girl, 
Since  thou  dost  stir  my  wrath.  Dost  thou  not  know, 
Daughter  of  Gordon's  stainless  house,  that  thou 
Art  to  a  mean  and  base  impostor  linked  ? 
Duped  and  beguiled  by  crafty  words,  thy  king 
Gave  with  his  own  pledged  faith  thy  maiden  hand 
To  Margaret's  lowborn  tool ;  and  he  hath  lied — 
Lied  his  own  life  away,  and  stained  his  soul 
With  foulest  perjury  to  steal  the  crown 
Of  glorious  England  from  her  lawful  king. 
The  fraud  is  plain  ;  the  forfeit,  his  mean  life, 
And  men  with  eyes  amazed  shrink  back  from  him 
They  followed  in  a  dream.     Awake  thou,  too ; 
Die  not  in  thy  delusion. 

Lad i/  C.  Now  be  still, 

My  swelling  heart !  speak  calmly,  quivering  lips ! 
Man — I  will  call  thee  monarch  now  no  more, 
While  ring  thy  words  of  insult  in  mine  ear. 
Thou  dost  defame  the  husband  I  adore, 
And,  in  mine  hour  of  fear  and  agony, 
With  cruel  calumnies  dost  strive  to  rend 
The  one  true  heart  that  loves  him  yet.     Enough  . 
Unkingly  words  were  thine ;  but  I  depart 
Where  earthly  slanders  can  not  reach  mine  ear. 
Give  orders  :   let  me  die. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  it  is  past ; 
It  was  a  flash  of  momentary  heat, 
For  of  a  fiery  race  I  came.     Alas !  I  mourn 
That  in  cold  blood,  fair  lady,  I  must  doom 


LOUISA    J.    HALL. 


A  creature  young  and  innocent  as  thou 
To  an  untimely  grave.     And,  if  I  gaze 
Longer  upon  that  brow  ingenuous, 
My  purposes  will  surely  melt.     Farewell. 

Lady  C.  Stay,  stay!  hear  but  a  few  brief  words 
Not  for  inyse.f  I  plead,  not  of  my  life,       [my  king 
My  worthless  life,  would  speak  ;  but  fame,  his  fame 
Dearer  than  kingdoms  to  his  noble  heart, 
Claiais  of  his  wife  one  burst  of  warm  defence, 
[f  royal  bio  id  flow  not  within  the  veins 
Of  him  I  loved  and  wedded,  that  deceit 
Was  never  his.     The  artful  may  have  played 
Upon  his  open  nature,  and  have  lured 
Their  victim  to  the  toils  for  purposes 

They  dared  not  own  ;  and  now  they  may  forsake 

Oh,  God  of  heaven  !  /never  will  desert 

My  mocked  and  much  wronged  husband,  though 

Shrink  from  him  as  a  serpent.  I  may  die  [false  men 

A  bloody  death,  but  with  my  last,  last  breath, 

Will  still  avow  my  trusting  love,  and  sue 

For  mercy  on  his  innocence. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  lady 

Lady  C.  Oh,  peace — unless  I  read  thy  restless 

eye  aright. 
Wilt  thou  not  look  on  me  1 

Doth  thy  heart  swell 

With  an  unwonted  fulness  1     Ha  !  the  vest 
Heaves  glittering  on  thy  breast ! — thou  then  art 
And,  if  tears  choke  me  not,  I  will  dare  plead  [moved, 
Even  for  him — him  whom  I  may  not  name. 

K.  Hen.  Loosen  my  robe :  away ;  I  will  not  hear. 

Lady  C.  Thou  must,  thou  wilt:  though  slander 
ous  tongues  do  say 

Thy  heart  is  steel,  I  will  believe  it  not, 
While  on  that  gracious  face  I  gaze.  Thou  'It  hear  me. 
His  trust  in  flattering  tongues  for  ever  cured, 
His  wild  hopes  mock'd,his  young  ambition  quench'd, 
His  wisdom  ripened  by  adversity, 
Forth  from  his  prison  will  my  husband  come 
A  subject  true  and  faithful  to  thy  sway. 
And  I  will  lead  him  far  away  from  courts, 
Into  the  heart  of  lonely  Scottish  hills ; 
There  by  some  quiet  lake  his  home  shall  be, 
So  still  and  happy,  that  his  stormy  youth, 
With  all  its  perilous  follies,  will  but  seem 
As  a  dim  memory  of  some  former  state, 
In  some  forgotten  world.     He  shall  grow  old 
Holing  my  simple  vassals  with  such  power 
As  a  brave  hand  and  gentle  heart  may  use ; 
And  never,  never  ask  again,  what  b'ood 
Flows  in  his  veins;  nor  dream  one  idle  dream 
Of  courtiers,  palaces,  and  sparkling  crowns, 
While  these  fond  lips  can  whisper  winning  words, 
And  woman's  ever-busy  love  can  weave 
Ties  strong  but  viewless  round  his  manly  heart. 
Thou  'It  hear  it  not,  but  in  that  blessed  home 
How  will  I  murmur  in  my  nightly  prayers 
The  name  of  England's  kiriLr ! 

He 's  free — he 's  pardoned  ! 
J  hat  tearful  smile  all  graciously  declares 
I  am  not  widowed  in  my  wretched  youth ! 
I  shall  behold  his  noble  face  again. 


God  bless  tl.ee,  generous  prince,  and  give  thee  power 
Through  long,  longyears,  to  bind  up  bleeding  hearts, 
And  use  thy  sceptre  as  a  wand  of  peace  ! 
My  tears — they  flowed  not  when  I  prayed — but  now 
The  grateful  gush  declares,  when  language  fails, 
The  ecstasy  of  joy  ! 


Enter  a  .1  /..vwx ;•«;•,  w/tn  presents  a  packet  ti 
<•}>,  n,  ,ind,  <ifur  ciiiUii-'  Itia  ,:ije  over  it,  t 


the  Kii,«.     tie  breaks  » 
tr/ts  away  abruptly. 


C/a.  The  king  is  troubled. 

K.  Hen.  {After  a  pause.}  My  sweet  petitionei 
look  up ! 

Lady  C.  Alas ! 
I  dare  not. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  why  now  such  sudden  fear  7 
What  sawest  thou  mirrored  in  my  face  ? 

Lady  C.  A  nameless  terror  robs  me  of  all  strength 
That  packet !  oh,  these  quick  and  dread  forebodings ! 
Speak  !  it  were  mercy  should  thine  accents  kill. 

K.  He?i,  Thou  hast  a  noble  spirit :  rouse  it  now 
Daughter  of  Gordon. 

Lady  C.  King  !  say  on — say  all. 

K.  Hen.  Art  thou  prepared  ] 

Lady  C.  What  matters  it  ]  speak,  speak  ! 
Prepared  ?  what,  with  this  dizzy,  whirling  brain  1 
Comes  fortitude  amid  such  fierce  suspense  ] 
Tell  me  the  worst — and  show  thy  pity  so. 

K.  Hen.  Blanched,  gasping,  but  angelic  still ! — 

What  words 
Can  sheathe  the  piercing  news  1     Thy  suit 
Was  all  too  late,  true  wife  !     He  is  in  heaven. 

[LADY  CATHERINE  faints 

Pale  rose  of  England  !" — men  have  named  thee 
well. 

What  brought  me  hither  1  what  1  to  murder  thee  ] 
Oh,  purpose  horrible !  I  can  not  think 

This  bosom  ever  harbored  scheme  so  fierce. 

)ark,  bloody  policy  !  it  is  dissolved 

Beneath  the  gentle  light  of  innocence, 

Melted  by  woman's  true  and  faithful  love, 
Conquered  by  grief  it  is  not  mine  to  heal. 

e  dead  may  not  return — but  she  may  live  ! 
Quit  not  the  broken-hearted  !  weeping  maid. 
She  hath  been  true  till  death.     And  I  will  give 
Shelter  to  sorrow  such  as  these  stern  eyes 
Ne'er  saw  till  now.     To  my  own  gentle  queen 

Vill  I  consign  the  victim  of  harsh  times,     [rose  ! 

^hou  shouldst  have  bloomed  in  sunshine,  blighted 
And  ne'er  have  been  transplanted  from  thy  bower 
To  waste  such  fragrant  virtues  mid  the  storm. 


j°TE'~In  the  rel§:n  of  HeniT  VI'-  of  Knaland.  a  pro 
ender  to  the  crown  appeared  in  the  person  of  I'erkit. 
Varbeck,  a  youth  who  declared  himself  to  be  Richard, 
uke  of  York,  second  son  of  Kdward  IV.  He  was  sup 
ported  l.y  Margaret  of  York,  the  Duke  of  Burmindv  and 
Other  powerful  friends;  and  tin-  ytmnz  kin-  of  Scotland 
went  so  l;,r  as  to  hestow  on  him  the  hand  of  the  lady 
Catherine  Gordon,  nearly  allied  to  the  royal  family,  and 
celebrated  tor  her  beauty.  Sh-  remained  fondly  attached 
to  him  through  his  reverses,  when  all  England"  had  for- 
Bdken  him  :  and  it  is  said  that  the  cold  hrart  of  Henry  was 
so  softened  by  her  loveliness,  constancy,  and  sorrow  for 
her  hn-hand.  that  he  relented  in  his  bloody  purpo-e  and 
instead  of  takin-  her  life,  as  he  had  intended,  placed  her 
honorably  :n  his  queen's  household.  Wa^-heck  had  adopt 
ed  the  title  of  the  -  1'ale  Rose  of  Kn-1  did  ;"  hut  the  people 
tran.-lrnvd  it  to  her.— Sec  .Maekimo.-Us  History  of  Sag 
land,  Philadelphia  ed.,  p.  197. 


ELIZA    L.   FOLLEN. 


(Born  1797-Died  1859). 


ELIZA  LEE  CABOT,  a  native  of  Boston,  was 
married  on  the  fifteenth  of  September,  1828, 
to  the  amiable  and  learned  Charles. Pollen, 
J.  U.  D.,  of  Germany,  then  of  the  Divinity 
School  at  Cambridge,  and  soon  afterward 
professor  of  the  German  language  and  liter 
ature  in  Harvard  College.  This  union  was 
eminently  happy,  and  it  continued  more  than 
eleven  years.  Dr.  Follen  perished  in  the 
conflagration  of  the  steamer  Lexington,  on 


the  night  of  the  thirteenth  of  January,  1840. 
Mrs.  Follen  is  the  author  of  several  works 
in  prose,  of  which  the  most  important  are 
Sketches  of  Married  Life,  The  Skeptic,  and 
a  Life  of  Charles  Follen,  in  one  volume,  pub 
lished  in  Boston  in  1844.  She  has  also  ed 
ited  the  works  of  her  husband,  in  four  vol 
umes.  The  larger  part  of  her  poems  are 
contained  in  a  volume  published  in  Boston, 
in  1839. 


SACHEM'S  HILL. 

HERE,  from  this  little  hillock, 

In  days  long  since  gone  by, 
Glanced  over  hill  and  valley 

The  sachem's  eagle  eye  : 
His  were  the  pathless  forests, 

And  his  the  hills  so  blue, 
And  on  the  restless  ocean 

Danced  only  his  canoe. 

Here  stood  the  aged  chieftain, 

Rejoicing  in  his  glory  : 
How  deep  the  shade  of  sadness 

That  rests  upon  his  story  ! 
For  the  white  man  came  with  power, 

Like  brethren  here  they  met — 
But  the  Indian  fires  went  out, 

And  the  Indian  sun  has  set. 

And  the  chieftain  has  departed, 

Gone  is  his  hunting-ground, 
And  the  twanging  of  his  bowstring 

Is  a  forgotten  sound  : 
Where  dwelleth  yesterday — and 

Where  is  echo's  cell  1 
Where  has  the  rainbow  vanished  ] — 

There  does  the  Indian  dwell. 

But  in  the  land  of  spirits 

The  Indian  has  a  place, 
And  there,  midst  saints  and  angels, 

He  sees  his  Maker's  face : 
There  from  all  earthly  passions 

His  heart  may  be  refined, 
And  the  mists  that  once  enshrouded 

Be  lifted  from  his  mind. 

And  should  his  freeborn  spirit 

Descend  again  to  earth, 
And  here,  unseen,  revisit 

The  spot  that  gave  him  birth, 
Would  not  his  altered  nature 

Rejoice  with  rapture  high, 


At  the  changed  and  glorious  prospect 

That  now  would  meet  his  eye  ] 
Where  nodded  pathless  forests, 

There  now  are  stately  domes; 
Where  hungry  wolves  were  prowling, 

Are  quiet,  happy  homes ; 
Where  rose  the  savage  warwhoop, 

Are  heard  sweet  village  bells, 
And  many  a  gleaming  spire 

Of  faith  in  Jesus  tells. 
And  he  feels  his  soul  is  changed — 

'T  is  there  a  vision  glows 
Of  more  surpassing  beauty 

Than  earthly  scenes  disclose  ; 
For  the  heart  that  felt  revenge, 

With  boundless  love  is  filled, 
And  the  restless  tide  of  passion 

To  a  holy  calm  is  stilled. 
Here,  to  my  mental  vision, 

The  Indian  chief  appears, 
And  all  my  eager  questions 

Fancy  believes  he  hears  : 
Oh,  speak,  thou  unseen  being, 

And  the  mighty  secrets  tell 
Of  the  land  of  deathless  glories, 

Where  the  departed  dwell ! 
I  can  not  dread  a  spirit — 

For  I  would  gladly  see 
The  veil  uplifted  round  us, 

And  know  that  such  things  be : 
The  things  we  see  are  fleeting, 

Like  summer  flowers  decay — 
The  things  unseen  are  real, 

And  do  not  pass  away. 
The  friends  we  love  so  dearly 

Smile  on  us,  and  are  gone, 
And  all  is  silent  in  their  place, 

And  we  are  left  alone ; 
But  the  joy  "  that  passeth  show," 

And  the  love  no  arm  can  sever 
And  all  the  treasures  of  their  souls. 

Shall  be  with  us  for  ever. 
121 


122 


ELIZA   L.   FOLLEN. 


WINTER  SCENES  IX  THE  COUNTRY. 

TIIK  short,  dull,  rainy  day  drew  to  a  close; 
No  gleam  hurst  forth  upon  the  western  hills, 
With  smiling  promise  of  a  brighter  day, 
Dressing  the  leafless  woods  with  golden  light; 
But  the  dense  fog  hung  its  dark  curtain  round, 
And  the  unceasing  rain  poured  like  a  torrent  on. 
The  weaned  inmates  of  the  house  draw  near 
The  cheerful  (ire;  the  shutters  all  are  closed; 
A  brightening  look  spreads  round,  that  seems  to  say, 
INow  let  the  darkness  and  the  rain  prevail — 
Here  all  is  bright  !      How  beautiful  is  the  sound 
Of  the  descending  rain  ;  how  soft  the  wind 
Through  the  wet  branches  of  the  drooping  elms: 
But  hark  !  far  oil*  beyond  the  sheltering  hills, 
Is  heard  the  gathering  tempest's  distant  swell, 
Threatening  the  peaceful  valley  ere  it  comes. 
The  stream  that  glided  through  its  pebbly  wav, 
To  its  own  sweet  music,  now  roars  hoarsely  on  ; 
The  woods  send  forth  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh  ; 
The  gentle  south  has  ceased;  the  rude  northwest, 
Rejoicing  in  his  strength,  comes  rushing  forth: 
The  rain  is  changed  into  a  driving  sleet, 
And  when  the  fitful  wind  a  moment  lulls, 
The  feathery  snow,  almost  inaudible, 
Falls  on  the  window-panes  as  soft  and  still 
As  the  light  brnshings  of  an  angel's  wings, 
Or  the  sweet  visitings  of  quiet  thoughts 
Midst  the  wild  tumult  of  this  stormy  life. 
The  tightened  strings  of  nature's  ceaseless  harp 
Send  forth  a  shrill  and  piercing  melody, 
As  the  full  swell  returns.     The  night  comes  on, 
And  sleep,  upon  this  little  world  of  ours, 
Spreads  out  her  sheltering,  healing  wings ;  and  man, 
The  heaven-inspired  soul  of  this  fair  earth — 
The  bold  interpreter  of  Nature's  voice, 
(Jivinu:  a  language  even  to  the  stars — 
Unconscious  of  the  th robbings  of  his  heart, 
Is  still :  and  all  unheeded  is  the  storm, 
Save  by  the  wakeful  few  who  love  the  night — 
Those  pure  and  active  spirits  that  are  placed 
As  guards  o'er  wayward  man — they  who  showforth 
God's  holy  image  on  the  soul  impressed — 
They  listen  to  the  music  of  the  storm, 
And  ho'd  high  converse  with  the  unseen  world: 
They  wake,  and  watch,  and  pray,  while  others  sleep. 
The  stormy  nin'lit  has  passed ;  the  eastern  clouds 
(ilow  with  the  morning's  ray:  but  who  shall  tell 
The  peerless  glories  of  this  winter  day  1 
Nature  has  put  her  jewels  on — one  blaze 
Of  sparkling  liyht  and  ever-varying  hues 
Bursts  on  the  enraptured  sight. 
The  smallest  twi^  w'ith  brilliants  hangs  its  head; 
The  graceful  elm  and  all  the  forest  trees 
Have  on  a  crystal  coat  of  mail,  and  seem 
All  decked  and  tricked  out  for  a  holyday, 
And  every  stone  shines  in  its  wreath  of  gems. 
The  pert,  familiar  robin,  as  he  flies 
From  spray  to  spray,  showers  diamonds  around, 


And  moves  in  rainbow  light  where'er  he  goes 
The  universe  looks  glad  :  hut  words  are  vain 
To  paint  the  wonders  of  the  splendid  show. 
The  heart  exults  with  uncontrolled  delight: 
The  glorious  pageant  slowlv  moves  away, 
As  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  western  hi. Is. 
So  fancy,  for  a  short  and  fleeting  day. 
May  shed  uprm  the  cold  and  barren  earth 
Her  bright  enchantments  and  her  dazzling  hues, 
And  thus  they  melt  and  fade  away,  and  leave 
A  cold  and  dull  rea'ity  behind. 

But  see  where,  in  the  clear,  unclouded  sky, 
The  crescent  moon,  with  calm  and  sweet  rebuke 
Doth  charm  away  the  spirit  of  complaint: 
Her  tender  light  falls  on  the  snow-clad  hills, 
Like  the  pure  thoughts  that  angels  might  bestow 
Upon  this  world  of  beauty  and  of  sin, 
That  mingle  not  with  that  whereon  they  rest: 
So  should  immortal  spirits  dwell  below. 
There  is  a  holy  influence  in  the  moon, 
And  in  the  countless  hosts  of  silent  stars, 
The  heart  can  not  resist:  its  passions  sleep, 
And  all  is  still,  save  that  which  shall  awake 
When  all  this  vast  and  fair  creation  sleeps. 


EVENING. 

THE  sun  is  set,  the  day  is  o'er. 
And  labor's  voice  is  heard  no  more ; 
On  high  the  silver  moon  is  hung  ; 
The  birds  their  vesper  hvmns  have  sung, 
Save  one,  who  oft  breaks  forth  anew, 
To  chant  another  sweet  adieu 
To  all  the  glories  of  the  day, 
And  all  its  pleasures  past  away. 
Her  twilight  robe  all  nature  wears. 
And  evening  sheds  her  fragrant  tears, 
Which  every  thirsty  plant  receives, 
Whi'e  silence  trembles  on  its  leaves: 
From  every  tree  and  every  bush 
There  seems  to  breathe  a  soothing  hush, 
While  every  transient  sound  but  shows 
How  deep  and  still  is  the  repose. 
Thus  calm  and  fair  may  all  things  be, 
When  life's  last  sun  has  set  with  me; 
And  may  the  lamp  of  memory  shine 
As  sweetly  on  my  day's  decline 
As  yon  pale  crescent,  pure  and  fair, 
That  hangs  so  safelv  in  the  air, 
And  pours  her  mild,  reflected  light, 
To  soothe  and  bless  the  weary  sight : 
And  may  my  spirit  often  wake 
Like  thine,  sweet  bird,  and,  singing,  take 
Another  farewell  of  the  sun — 
Of  pleasures  past,  of  labors  done. 
See,  where  the  glorious  sun  has  set, 
A  line  of  light  is  lingering  yet  : 
Oh,  thus  may  love  awhile  illume 
The  silent  darkness  of  mv  tomb! 


FRANCES    H.    GREEN. 


FRANCES  HARRIET  WHIFFLE,  now  Mrs. 
GREEN,  was  born  in  Smithfield,  Rhode  Is 
land,  and  is  descended  from  two  or  the  oldest 
and  most  honorable  families  of  that  state. 
While  she  was  very  young,  her  father,  Mr. 
George  Whipple,  lost  by  various  misfortunes 
his  estate,  and  she  was  therefore  leit  to  her 
own  resources  for  support  and  for  the  culti 
vation  of  her  fine  understanding,  of  which 
some  of  the  earliest  fruits  were  poems  print 
ed  in  the  gazettes  from  1830  to  1835.  Her 
first  volume  was  Memoirs  of  Eleanor  El- 
bridge,  a  colored  woman,  of  which  there 
were  sold  more  than  thirty  thousand  copies. 
In  1841  she  published  The  Mechanic,  a  book 
addressed  to  the  operatives  of  the  country, 
which  was  much  commended  in  Mr.  Brown- 
son's  Boston  Quarterly  Review.  In  1844  she 
gave  to  the  public  Might  and  Right,  a  histo 
ry  of  the  attempted  revolution  in  Rhode  Is 
land,  known  as  the  Dorr  Insurrection.  Dur 
ing  a  part  of  the  year  1842  she  conducted 
The  Wampanoag,  a  journal  designed  for  the 
elevation  of  the  laboring  portion  of  the  com 
munity,  and  she  has  since  been  a  large  con 
tributor  to  what  are  called  "reform  periodi 
cals,"  pariicularly  The  Nineteenth  Century, 
a  quarterly  miscellany,  and  The  Univercoe- 
lum  and  Spiritual  Philosopher,  a  paper  "  de 
voted  to  philosophico-theology,  and  an  expo 
sition  and  inculcation  of  the  principles  of 
Nature,  in  their  application  to  individual  and 
social  life."  In  the  autumn  of  1848  she  be 
came  editress  of  The  Young  People's  Journal 
of  Science,  Literature,  and  Art,  a  monthly 
magazine  of  an  attractive  character,  printed 
in  New  York. 

One  of  the  best  known  of  Mrs.  Green's  po 
ems  is  The  Dwarf's  Story,  a  gloomy  but  pas 
sionate  and  powerful  composition,  which  ap 
peared  in  The  Rhode  Island  Book,  in  1841. 
The  longest  and  most  carefully  finished  is 
Nanuntenoo,  a  Legend  of  the  Narragansetts, 
in  six  cantos,  of  which  the  first,  second  and 
third  were  published  in  Philadelphia  in  1848. 
This  is  a  work  of  decided  and  various  merit. 
We  have  few  good  poems  upon  aboriginal 
superstition,  tradition,  or  history.  The  best 


are  Yamoyden,  by  Sands  and  Eastburn,  Mogg 
Megone,  by  Whittier,  the  Legend  of  the  An- 
dirondach  Mountains,  by  Hoffman, Yonondio, 
by  Hosmer,  Nemahmin,  bv  Louis  L.  Noble, 
and  Mrs.  Green's  Nanuntenoo,  with  which, 
—  though  it  is  not  yet  published  —  may  be 
classed  Mr.  Street's  admirable  romance  of 
Frontenac.  In  Nanuntenoo  are  shown  de 
scriptive  powers  scarcely  inferior  to  those 
of  Bryant  and  Carlos  Wilcox,  who  have  been 
most  successful  in  painting  the  grand,  beau 
tiful,  and  peculiar  scenery  of  New  England. 
The  rhythm  is  harmonious,  and  the  style  gen 
erally  elegant  and  poetically  ornate.  In  the 
delineations  of  Indian  character  and  adven 
ture,  we  see  fruits  of  an  intelligent  study  of 
the  colonial  annals,  and  a  nice  apprehension 
of  the  influences  of  external  nature  in  psycho 
logical  development.  It  is  a  production  that 
will  gratify  attention  by  the  richness  of  its 
fancy,  the  justness  of  its  reflection,  and  its 
dramatic  interest. 

The  minor  poems  of  Mrs.  Green  are  nu 
merous,  and  they  are  marked  by  idiosyncra- 
cies  which  prove  them  fruits  of  a  genuine 
inspiration.  Her  Songs  of  the  Winds,  and 
sketches  of  Indian  life,  from  both  of  which 
series  specimens  are  given  in  the  following 
pages,  are  frequently  characterized  by  a  mas 
culine  energy  of  expression,  and  a  minute 
observation  of  nature.  Though  occasionally 
difluse,  and  illustrated  by  epithets  or  images 
that  will  not  be  approved,  perhaps,  by  the 
most  fastidious  tastes,  they  have  meaning  in 
them,  and  the  reader  is  not  often  permitted 
to  fonjet  the  presence  of  the  power  and  deli 
cacy  of  the  poetical  faculty. 

31  rs.  Green  has  perhaps  entered  more 
largely  than  any  of  her  countrywomen  into 
discussions  of  religion,  philosophy,  and  pol 
itics.  Her  views  are  frequently  original  and 
ingenious,  and  they  are  nearly  always  stated 
with  clearness  and  maintained  with  force  of 
logic  and  fitlicity  of  illustration.  A  consid 
eration  of  them  would  be  inure  appropriate  in 
a  reviewal  of  her  prose-writings.  Their  pe 
culiarities  are  not  disclosed  in  her  poems,  of 

which  the  only  law  is  the  sense  of  beauty. 
J  1-23 


121: 


FRANCES    H.   GREEX. 


NEW  ENGLAND  SUMMER  IN  THE  AN 
CIENT  TIME. 

FROM  THE  FIRST  CANTO  OF  "NANUNTENOO." 

STILLNESS  of  summer  noontide  over  hill, 
And  deep  embowering  wood,  and  rock,  and  stream, 
Spread  forth  her  downy  pinions,  scattering  sleep 
Upon  the  drooping  eyelids  of  the  air. 
No  wind  breathed  through  the  forest,  that  could  stir 
The  lightest  foliage.     If  a  rustling  sound 
Escaped  the  trees,  it  might  be  nestling  bird, 
Or  else  the  po  islied  leaves  were  turning  back 
To  their  own  natural  places,  whence  the  wind 
Of  the  last  hour  had  flung  them.     From  afar 
Came  the  deep  roar  of  waters,  vet  subdued 
To  a  melodious  murmur,  like  the  chant 
Of  naiads,  ere  they  take  their  noontide  rest. 
A  tremulous  motion  stirred  the  aspen  leaves, 
And  from  their  shivering  steins  an  utterance  came, 
So  delicate  and  spirit-like,  it  seemed 
The  soul  of  music  breathed,  without  a  voice. 
The  anemone  bent  low  her  drooping  head, 
Mourning  the  absence  of  her  truant  love, 
Till  the  soft  languor  closed  her  sleepy  eye, 
To  dream  of  zephyrs  from  the  fragrant  south, 
Coming  to  wake  her  with  renewed  life. 
The  eglantine  breathed  perfume ;  and  the  rose 
Cherished  her  reddening  buds,  that  drank  the  light, 
Fair  as  the  vermil  on  the  cheek  of  Hope. 
Where'er  in  sheltered  nook  or  quiet  dell, 
The  waters,  like  enamored  lovers,  found 
A  thousand  sweet  excuses  for  delay, 
The  clustering  lilies  bloomed  upon  their  breast, 
Love-tokens  from  the  naiads,  when  they  came 
To  trifle  with  the  deep,  impassioned  waves. 

The  wild  bee,  hovering  on  voluptuous  wing, 
Scarce  murmured  to  the  blossom,  drawing  thence 
Slumber  with  honey;  then  in  the  purpling  cup, 
As  if  oppressed  with  sweetness,  sank  to  sleep. 
The  wood-dove  tenderly  caressed  his  mate; 
Each  looked  within  the  other's  drowsy  eyes, 
Till  outward  objects  melted  into  dreams. 

The  rich  vermilion  of  the  tanager, 
Or  summer  red-bird,  flashed  amid  the  green, 
Like  rubies  set  in  richest  emerald. 
On  some  tall  maple  sat  the  oriole, 
In  black  and  orange,  by  his  pendent  nest, 
To  cheer  his  brooding  mate  with  whispered  songs; 
Whilo  high  amid  the  loftiest  hickory 
Perched  the  loquacious  jay,  his  turquoise  crest 
Low  drooping,  as  he  plumed  his  shining  coat, 
Rich  with  the  changeful  blue  of  Nazareth. 
And  higher  yet,  amid  a  towering  pine, 
Stood  the  fierce  hawk,  half-slumbering,  half-awake, 
His  keen  eye  flickering  in  his  dark  unrest, 
As  if  he  sought  for  plunder  in  his  dreams. 

The  scaly  snake  crawled  lazily  abroad, 
To  revel  in  the  sunshine ;  and  the  hare 
Stole  from  her  leafy  couch,  with  ears  erect 
Against  the  soft  air-current;  then  she  crept, 
With  a  light,  velvet  footfall,  through  the  ferns. 
The  squirrel  stayed  his  gambols  ;  and  the  songs 
Which  late  through  all  the  forest  arches  rang, 
Were  graduated  to  a  harmony 
Of  rudiniiMital  music,  href '.hing  low, 
Making  the  soft  wind  richer — as  the  notes 


Had  been  dissolved,  and  mingled  with  the  air. 
Pawtucket  almost  slumbered,  for  his  waves 
Were  lulled  by  their  own  chanting  :  breathing  low 
With  a  just-audible  murmur,  as  the  soul 
Is  stirred  in  visions  with  a  thought  of  love, 
He  whispered  back  the  whisper  tenderly 
Of  the  fair  willows  bending  over  him, 
With  a  light  hush  upon  their  stirring  leaves, 
Blest  watchers  o'er  his  day-dreams.     Not  a  sign 
Of  man  or  his  abode  met  ear  or  eye, 
But  one  great  wilderness  of  living  wood, 
O'er  hill,  and  cliff,  and  valley,  swelled  and  waved, 
An  ocean  of  deep  verdure.     By  the  rock 
Which  bound  and  strengthen'd  all  their  massive  roots 
Stood  the  great  oak  and  giant  sycamore; 
Along  the  water-courses  and  the  glades 
Rose  the  fair  maple  and  the  hickory; 
And  on  the  loftier  heights  the  towering  pine — • 
Strong  guardians  of  the  forest — standing  there, 
On  the  old  ramparts,  sentinels  of  Time, 
To  watch  the  flight  of  ages.     Indian  hordes, 
The  patriarchs  of  Nature,  wandered  free ; 
W'hile  every  form  of  being  spake  to  them 
Of  the  Great  Spirit  that  pervaded  all, 
And  curbed  their  fiery  nature  with  a  law- 
Written  in  light  upon  the  shadowy  soil— 
Bowing  their  sturdy  hearts  in  reverence 
Before  the  Great  Unseen  yet  Ever  FELT  ! 
The  very  site  where  villages  and  towns, 
As  if  called  forth  by  magic,  have  uprisen; 
WThere  now  the  anvils  echo,  hammers  clank, 
The  hum  of  voices  in  the  stirring  mart, 
And  roar  of  dashing  wheels,  create  a  din 
That  almost  rivals  the  old  cataract — 
As  if  its  thunder  had  grown  tired  and  hoarse 
In  striving  to  be  heard  above  the  din — 
Two  centuries  gone,  was  one  unbroken  wild, 
Where  the  fierce  wolf,  the  panther,  and  the  snake 
A  forest  aristocracy,  scarce  feared 
The  monarch  man,  and  shared  his  common  lot — 
To  hunger,  plunder  from  the  weak,  and  slay ; 
To  wake  a  sudden  terror ;  then  lie  down, 
To  be  unnamed — unknown — for  evermore. 


A  NARRAGANSETT  SACHEM, 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

A  FOOTFALL  broke  the  silence,  as  along 
Pawtucket's  bank  an  Indian  warrior  passed. 
Awed  by  the  solemn  stillness,  he  had  paused 
In  deep,  reflecting  mood.     A  nobler  brow 
Ne'er  won  allegiance  from  Roman  hosts, 
Than  his  black  plume  half  shaded ;  nor  a  form 
Of  kinglier  bearing,  moulded  perfectly, 
E'er  flashed  on  day-dreams  of  Praxiteles. 
The  mantle  that  o'er  one  broad  shoulder  hung, 
Was  broidered  with  such  trophies  as  are  worn 
By  sachems  only.     Ghastly  rows  of  teeth 
Glistened  amid  the  wampum.     On  the  edge 
A  lace  of  woven  scalp-locks  was  inwrought, 
Where  the  soft,  glossy  brown  of  white  man's  hail 
Mingled  with  Indian  tresses,  dark  and  harsh. 
The  wampum-be. t,  of  various  hues  inwrought, 
Graced  well  his  manly  bosom  ;  and  below, 
His  taper  limbs  met  the  rich  moccasin. 


FRANCES    H.   GREEN. 


125 


SASSACUS.* 

THE  orient  sun  was  coming  pioudly  up, 
And  looking  o'er  the  Atlantic  gloriously  ; 
Old  Ocean's  bosom  felt  the  living  rays ; 
A  rich  smile  flashed  up  from  his  hoary  cheek, 
Subduing  pride  with  beauty,  as  he  turned, 
In  each  clear  wave,  a  mirror  to  the  sky ; 
And  Earth  was  beautifu',  as  when,  of  erst, 
In  the  young  freshness  of  her  vestal  morn, 
She  wore  the  dew-gems  in  her  bridal  crown, 
And  met,  and  won,  the  exulting  lord  of  Day. 

The  beauty-loving  Mystic  wound  a'ong 
Throiuh  the  green  meadows,  as  if  led  by  Taste, 
That  knew  and  sought  the  purest  emerald, 
And  had  the  art  of  finding  fairest  flowers; 
While  his  young  brother,  Thames,  enrobed  in  light, 
Lingered  with  sparkling  eddies  round  the  shore. 
The  sea-bird's  snowy  wing  was  tinged  with  gold, 
And  scarcely  wafted  on  the  ambient  air, 
As,  lightly  poised,  she  hung  above  the  deep, 
And  looked  beneath  its  crystal.      With  a  scream 
Of  wild  delight  at  all  the  wealth  she  saw, 
Down  like  a  flake  of  living  snow  she  plunged ; 
Then,  momently  upgleaming,  like  a  burst 
Of  winged  light  from  the  waters,  shaking  off 
The  liquid  pearls  from  all  her  downy  plumes, 
She  soared  in  triumph  to  her  wave-girt  nest. 

The  spirit  of  the  morning  over  all 
Went  with  a  quickening  presence,  fair  and  free, 
Till  every  beetling  crag,  and  steri'e  rock, 
And  swamp,  and  wilderness,  and  desert  ground, 
W7ere  instinct  with  her  glory.     Moss  and  fern, 
And  clinging  vine,  and  all  unnumbered  trees, 
That  make  the  woods  a  paradise,  were  stirred 
By  whispering  zephyrs,  and  shook  off  the  dew ; 
While  fragrance  rose,  like  incense,  to  the  skies. 
The  soft  May  wind  was  breathing  through  the  wood, 
Calling  the  sluggish  buds  to  light  and  life — 
As,  stealing  softly  through  the  silken  bonds, 
It  freed  the  infant  leaf,  and  gently  held 
Its  trembling  greenness  in  his  lambent  arms. 
The  eagle  from  his  cloud-wreathed  eyry  sprang, 
Soaring  aloft,  as  he  had  grown  in  love, 
Aspiring  to  the  lovely  Morning-Star, 
That  lately  vanished  mid  the  kindling  depths 
Of  saffron-azure  ;  and  the  smaller  birds 
Plumed  the  bright  wing  with  sweetest  carolings, 
Instinctive  breath  of  joy,  and  love,  and  praise. 

No  sound  of  hostile  legions  marred  the  scene ; 
Trumpet  and  war-cry,  sword  and  battle-axe, 
With  all  their  horrid  din,  were  far  away, 
And  gentle  Peace  sat,  queenlike — Was  it  so  1 

*  On  a  morning  of  May,  1637,  the  English,  under  Major 
John  Mason,  attacked  the  fort  of  Mystic,  one  of  the  strong 
holds  of  Sassacus.  The  Indians,  believing  the  enemy  afar, 
had  sung  and  danced  till  midnight ;  and  the  depth  of  their 
morning  slumbers  made  them  an  easy  prey.  "  The  resist- 
bnce,"  says  Thatcher,  '•  was  manly  and  desperate,  but  the 
work  of  destruction  was  completed  in  little  more  than  an 
hour.'1  And  again,  "Seventy  wigwams  were  burnt,  and 
five  or  six  hundred  Pequots  killed.'  Parent  and  child  alike, 
the  sanop  and  squaw,  the  gray-haired  man  and  the  babe, 
were  buried  in  one  promiscuous  ruin."  Sassacus,  flushed 
with  conquest,  with  his  followers  returned  just  in  time  to 
witness  the  expiring  flames.  After  this,  the  fortunes  of 
the  sachem  rapidly  declined  ;  and  when  his  own  hatchets 
were  turned  against  him,  he  fled  with  Mononotto  to  the 
Mohawks,  by  whom  he  was  treacherously  murdered. 


Behold  yon  smouldering  ruin  !     Lo.  yon  height ! 
The  Pequot  there  his  simple  fortress  reared. 
And  there  he  slept  in  peace  but  yester-eve, 
And  his  fair  dreams  spake  not  of  coming  death! 
Where  are  the  hundred  dwellers  of  this  spot — 
The  parents,  children,  and  the  household  charm;;, 
That  woke  a  soft,  familiar  magic  here  1 
The  crackling  cinders — one  chaotic  mass 
Of  death  and  ruin — utter  all  the  wrong, 
In  their  deep,  voicefu!  silence.     Fire  and  sword, 
Sped  by  the  Yengees'  hate,  have  only  left 
The  ashes  of  the  beautiful;  or,  worse, 
The  mangled  type  of  each  familiar  form, 
Looks  grimly  through  the  horrid  mask  of  death ! 

There  slumbers  all  that  woke  a  thrill  of  love 
In  the  firm  warrior's  bosom.     Death  stole  on, 
Swift  in  the  track  of  Gladness;  and  young  hearts, 
Yet  quick  with  rapture,  in  the  halcyon  dreams 
Of  youth,  and  love,  and  hope,  awoke — -to  die. 
They  grappled  with  the  subtile  element, 
Then  rushed  on  lance,  and  spear,  and  naked  sword, 
To  quench  with  their  hot  blood  the  torturing  flames. 
The  few  strong  warriors  had  grown  desperate ; 
But  desperation  could  not  long  avail — 
And  nerveless  valor  fall  beside  the  weak. 
Mothers  and  children,  aged  men  and  strong, 
Bore  the  fierce  tortures  of  dissolving  life, 
And  all  consumed  together;  till,  at  last, 
The  feeble  wail  of  dying  infancy — 
A  muttering  curse — a  groan  but  half  respired — 
A  prayer  for  vengeance  on  the  subtle  foe — 
Were  lost  amid  the  wildly-crackling  flames : 
Then  the  mute  smoke  went  upward.     All  was  still, 
Save  the  sweet  harmonies  that  Nature  woke, 
Careless  of  man's  destruction,  or  his  pangs. 

But  hark  !  the  tramp  of  warriors !    They  come  ! 
Their  loving  thoughts,  winged  heralds,  sent  before 
To  dear  ones  clustering  in  their  wigwams'  shade, 
That  wooing  them  from  the  memory  of  their  toils, 
To  watch  their  soft  repose  with  eyes  of  love ; 
While  sweet  anticipation  sketches  forth 
One  sunny  hour  of  joy  encircling  all — 
The  rainbow-blessing  of  their  clouded  life — 
More  bright,  more  heavenly,  for  the  gloom  it  gilds 

But  is  there  joy  in  that  wildly  piercing  cry  ] 
The  agonizing  consciousness  of  wrong, 
Not  graduated,  but  with  one  fell  scath, 
Blasts  now,  like  sudden  lightning ;  and  the  fire 
Awakes  the  latent  sulphur  of  the  soul ! 
The  horrid  truth,  in  all  its  length,  and  breadth, 
And  height,  and  depth,  before  them  lies  revealed, 
An  utter  desolation.     They  are  mad  : 
Or  more  or  less  than  man  might  not  be  so. 

Great  Sassacus  draws  nigh.     The  panther-skin 
Parts  from  his  bosom,  and  the  tomahawk 
Is  flung  off,  with  the  quiver  and  the  bow. 
No  word  he  utters ;  for  the  marble  lip 
May  give  to  sound  no  passage;  but  his  eye 
Looks  forth  in  horror :  all  its  liquid  fires 
Shoot  out  a  crystal  gleam,  like  icicles — 
And  not  a  single  nerve  is  stirring  now 
In  the  still  features,  frozen  with  their  pride , 
But,  'neath  the  brawny  folding  of  his  arms, 
The  seamed  and  scarry  chest  is  heaving  up. 
Like  a  disturbed  volcano.     All  he  loved 


120 


FRANCES    H.   GREEN. 


Sleep  in  the  arms  of  Ruin.     There  they  lie. 

He  knew  that  he  was  reverenced  as  a  god — 

That  ori  the  roll  of  heroes,  prouder  name, 

Or  clothed  with  mightier  majesty,  was  not, 

Than  iSassacus  the  Terrible.     That  name 

The  bronz  d  cheek  of  the  warrior  would  blanch ; 

There  was  a  magic  in  its  very  sound 

That  made  the  bravest  blood  tun:  pale  as  milk. 

And  curdle  in  its  passage.     SASSACUS  ! — 

When  those  dire  syllables  were  uttered  loud, 

The  vulture  clapped  her  wings,  and  gave  a  scream. 

By  instinct  scenting  the  far  field  of  Death. 

At  his  fell  war-cry  down  the  eagle  came, 

To  perch  upon  some  overhanging  clilf, 

And  glory  in  bis  glory.     Her  response 

Echoed  afar  the  thrilling  call  to  strife, 

As  on  her  lofty  battlements  she  sat, 

Like  some  wild  spirit  of  a  kindred  power. 

Such  was  the  fame  that  burnished  his  dark  crest, 

Such  were  the  signs  that  marked  the  chief  a  god. 

Had  UK  a  weakness  that  could  yield  to  grief, 

The  strong — the  mighty — the  invincible! 

May  he  not  rend  affection  from  his  heart, 

Or  trifle  with  his  passions  ! 

On  he  went 

With  half-averted  eye — as  what  he  sought 
Among  those  mangled  forms  he  durst  not  find. 
Sudden  there  came  a  shadow  o'er  his  brow — 
An  awful  spirit  to  his  flaming  eye: 
He  stood  before  his  threshold.     Stretched  across, 
As  the  last  horrid  blow  had  checked  her  flight, 
Lay  his  weak,  gray-haired  mother.     Just  below, 
A  pair  of  round  arms,  clinging  to  her  knees, 
Alone  were  left  to  tell  him  of  his  babe. 
With  one  long,  earnest,  agonizing  thought, 
He  gazed  to  gather  strength  for  fiercer  pangs ; 
Then  faltering  step  sped  onward ;  but  again 
Abruptly  pauses,  for  his  form  is  fixed, 
Like  some  dark  granite  statue  of  Despair. 

The  delicate  proportions,  fair  and  soft, 
Of  his  young  wife,  came  suddenly  to  view — 
Unmarred,  as  if  to  aggravate  the  more, 
Save  by  one  cruel  wound  beneath  her  hair 
Upon  the  upturned  forehead.     Can  it  be 
The  gay  young  creature  he  but  left  at  eve, 
So  very  beautiful,  is  sleeping  thus — 
Cold — cold  in  death — irrevocably  gone  ] 
Remeinbereth  not  that  shadowy  maze  of  hair 
How  dotingly  he  wreathed  i*.  yesterday  ] — 
Or  that  fair,  ruby  lip  the  tender  kiss 
That  won  him  back,  when  he  had  turned  away, 
With  all  its  tempting  sweetness  1     She  is  dead  ; 
And  all  her  garments  and  her  flowing  hair 
Are  dink  and  heavy  with  the  waste  of  blood  ! 
Her  arms  are  folded  on  her  marble  breast, 
A  lovely,  but  an  ineffectual  shield; 
The  lids  are  lifted,  and  the  parting  lips 
Are  curved  lieseeehingh ,  as  when  they  sued 
For  meivv  from  tin-  murderer — in  vain! 

He  looked  upon  her,  as  if  life  would  burst 
In  one  long,  agonizing,  phrensied  gaze; 
The  Muslin..-  sight  was  madness:  then  he  laughed, 
In  utter  desperation,  utter  scorn! 
He  knew  that  Fate  herself  might  never  crush 
A  soul  that  could  endure  such  pangs,  and  live  ! 


Why  starts  he,  as  some  yet-untroubled  nerve 
Had  quickened  for  the  torture1?     Hush  !  a  wail 
From  yonder  dying  child  ! — Can  that  arrest 
A  pride  that  seemed  to  glory  in  its  pangs? 
!   Oh,  gracious  God  !  his  first-born,  darling  child, 
'   Whom  he  had  nurtured  with  a  chieftain's  pride, 
And  doated  on  with  all  a  father's  love, 
Lies  at  his  feet — though  mangled,  living  still. 
A  rapturous  pang  of  momentary  joy, 
That  this  one,  dearest  treasure,  yet  might  be 
Spared  to  his  bosom,  shot  through  heart  and  soul 
The  struggling  hope,  in  bitter  mockery, 
A  meteor  on  the  midnight  of  despair, 
Lived  for  an  instant — quivered — vanished — died-  - 
Leaving  more  utter  blackness.     Ere  he  bent 
To  lift  the  little  sufferer  in  his  arms, 
The  livid  type  of  death  was  on  his  brow. 
One  look  of  recognition,  full  of  power — • 
The  agonizing  power  of  love  in  death — 
Sped  from  the  dying.     With  a  piteous  moan, 
As  if  to  show  how  much  he  had  endured, 
He  lifted  up  his  little  mangled  arm,  [died : 

And  murmuring,  "  Father !"  struggled,  gasped,  and 
And  Sassacus  was  martyred  o'er  again  ! 

He  breathed  no  prayer,  he  spoke  no  malison — • 
But  one  hand  lifted  up  the  mangled  boy 
With  the  firm  grasp  of  madness  nerved  to  steel; 
And  in  the  other  his  sharp  battle-axe 
He  swung  above  him  with  a  dizzening  whirl, 
And  thundered  out  the  war-cry  !   Then  they  turned 
To  the  fell  work  of  vengeance  and  of  death. 

Again  I  marked  the  warrior.     He  stood 
Among  the  scenes  of  early  triumph,  where 
His  soul  first  wedded  Glory — on  the  spot 
Where,  on  his  high  hereditary  throne, 
He  poised  a  sceptre  that  could  sway  the  free : 
Was  yonder  broken-hearted  man  a  king] — 
Forsaken,  wretched,  desolate,  and  crushed — 
Hunted  through  all  his  fair  paternal  woods — 
His  own  knives  turned  by  Treason  to  his  breast ! 
In  the  wide  earth  without  a  single  friend, 
Alone  he  standeth — like  the  blasted  oak, 
Mocked  by  the  greenness  that  was  once  his  own ; 
A  mighty  ruin  in  a  pleasant  place — 
A  ruin,  storm,  or  tempest,  could  not  bow, 
And  waiting  for  the  earthquake  !     It  shall  come. 

Where  are  his  kindred  1     Yonder  ashy  mound 
Looks  forth  at  once  their  tomb  and  their  epitaph. 
His  followers'? — They  are  fallen,  or  fled,  or  slaves. 
His  land  ] — He  has  none.  And  his  peaceful  home"? 
The  mighty  outcast  is  denied  a  grave ! 
His  fathers'  land — his  own — contains  no  spot 
Where  he  of  right  may  lay  his  body  down 
To  the  long  sleep  his  broken  nature  craves  ! 
The  white  man's  voice  is  echoing  on  his  hills  ; 
The  white  man's  axe  is  ringing  through  his  woods; 
And  he  is  banished — ah  !  he  recks  not  where. 

His  step  hath  lost  its  firm,  elastic  tone, 
But  it  hath  caught  a  majesty  from  wo, 
Such  as  would  crush  to  atoms  meaner  hearts ! 
His  features  are  like  granite  ;  but  hib  brow, 
Like  the  rude  cliff  on  the  volcano's  front, 
Is  haggard  with  the  conflict — written  o'er 
With  the  fell  history  of  his  burning  wrongs. 
The  snow  is  falling ;  but  he  heedeth  not — 


FRANCES   H.   GREEN. 


127 


[t  is  not  colder  than  his  stricken  heart. 

Behold  him  clinging  to  that  little  mound, 

As  if  the  senseless  earth,  that  covers  o'er 

The  ashes  of  the  beautiful,  might  feel 

The  last  strong  heart-throbs  that  are  beating  there 

Against  its  icy  bosom.     Doth  he  weep  ? — 

A  few  hot  tears,  yet  freezing  as  they  fall, 

Are  mingling  with  the  hail-drops.     It  is  o'er — 

His  first,  last  weakness.     Yonder  rigid  form — 

'T  is  Mononotto — beckons  him  away. 


SONG  OF  THE  NORTH  WIND. 

FROX  the  home  of  Thor,  and  the  land  of  Hun, 

Where  the  valiant  frost-king  defies  the-  sun, 

Till  he,  like  a  coward,  slinks  away 

With  the  spectral  glare  of  his  meager  day — 

And  throned  in  beauty,  peerless  Night, 

In  her  robe  of  snow  and  her  crown  of  light, 

Sits  queenlike  on  her  icy  throne, 

With  frost-flowers  in  her  pearly  zone — 

And  the  fair  Aurora  floating  free, 

Round  her  form  of  matchless  symmetry — 

An  iriscd  mantle  of  roseate  hue, 

W7ith  the  gold  and  hyacinth  melting  through ; 

And  from  her  forehead,  beaming  far, 

Looks  forth  her  own  true  polar  star. 

From  the  land  we  love — our  native  home — 

On  a  mission  of  wrath  we  come,  we  come  ! 

Away,  away,  over  earth  and  sea  ! 

Unchained,  and  chainless,  we  are  free  ! 

As  we  fly,  our  strong  wings  gather  force, 
To  rush  on  our  overwhelming  course  : 
We  have  swept  the  mountain  and  walked  the  main, 
And  now,  in  our  strength,  we  are  here  again  ; 
To  beguile  the  stay  of  this  wintry  hour, 
We  are  chanting  our  anthem  of  pride  and  power; 
And  the  listening  earth  turns  deadly  pale — 
Like  a  sheeted  corse,  the  silent  vale 
Looks  forth  in  its  robe  of  ghastly  white, 
As  now  we  rehearse  our  deeds  of  might. 
The  strongest  of  God's  sons  are  we — 
Unchained,  and  chainless,  ever  free  ! 

We  have  looked  on  Hecla's  burning  brow, 
And  seen  the  pines  of  Norland  bow 
In  cadence  to  our  deafening  roar, 
On  the  craggy  steep  of  the  Arctic  shore  ;      [flood, 
We  have  waltzed  with  the  maelstrom's  whirling 
And  curdled  the  current  of  human  blood, 
As  nearer,  nearer,  nearer,  drew 
The  struggling  bark  to  the  boiling  blue — 
Till,  resistless,  urged  to  the  cold  death-clasp, 
It  writhes  in  the  hideous  monster's  grasp — 
A  moment — and  then  the  fragments  go 
Down,  down,  to  the  fearful  depths  below  ! 
But  away,  away,  over  land  and  sea — 
Unchained,  and  chainless,  we  are  free  ! 

We  have  startled  the  poising  avalanche, 
And  seen  the  cheek  of  the  mountain  bianco, 
As  down  the  giant  Ruin  came, 
With  a  step  of  wrath  arid  an  eye  of  flame 
Hurling  destruction,  death,  and  wo, 
On  all  around  and  all  below, 
Till  the  piling  rocks  and  the  prostrate  wood 


Conceal  the  spot  where  the  village  stood ; 
And  the  choking  waters  vainly  try 
From  their  strong  prison-hold  to  fly  ! 
We  haste  away,  for  our  breath  is  rife 
With  the  groans  of  expiring  human  life ! 
Of  that  hour  of  horror  we  only  may  tell — . 
As  we  chant  the  dirge  and  we  ring  the  knell, 
Away,  away,  over  land  and  sea — 
Unchained  and  chainless — WP  are  free ! 

Full  often  we  catch,  as  we  hurry  along, 
The  clear-ringing  notes  of  the  La^  lander's  song, 
As,  borne  by  his  reindeer,  he  dashes  away 
Through  the  night  of  the  North,  more  refulgent 

than  day  ! 

WTe  have  traversed  the  land  where  the  dark  Es 
quimaux 

Looks  out  on  the  gloom  from  his  cottage  of  snow  ; 
Where  in  silence  sits  brooding  the  large  milk-white 

owl, 
And  the  sea-monsters  roar,  and  the  famished  wolves 

howl ; 

And  the  white  polar  bear  her  grim  paramour  hails, 
As  she  hies  to  her  tryste  through  throse  crystalline 

vales, 
Where  the  Ice-Mountain  stands,  with  his  feet  in 

the  deep, 

That  around  him  the  petrified  waters  may  sleep; 
And  light  in  a  flood  of  refulgence  comes  down, 
As  the  lunar  beams  glance  from  his  shadowlesa 

crown. 
We  have  looked  in  the  hut  the  Kamschatkan  hatli 

reared, 

And  taken  old  Behring  himself  by  the  beard, 
Where  he  sits  like  a  giant  in  gloomy  unrest, 
Ever  driving  asunder  the  East  and  the  West. 
But  we  hasten  away,  over  mountain  and  sea, 
With  a  wing  ever  chainless,  a  thought  ever  free ! 

From  the  parent  soil  we  have  rent  the  oak — 
His  strong  arms  splintered,  his  sceptre  broke  : 
For  centuries  he  has  defied  our  power, 
But  we  plucked  him  forth  like  a  fragile  flower, 
And  to  the  wondering  Earth  brought  down 
The  haughty  strength  of  his  hoary  crown. 
Away,  away,  over  land  and  sea — 
Unchained  and  chainless — we  are  free  ! 

We  have  roused  the  Storm  from  his  pillow  of  air, 
And  driven  the  Thunder-King  forth  from  his  lair; 
We  have  torn  the  rock  from  the  dizzoning  steep. 
And  awakened  the  wilds  from  their  ancient  sleep, 
We  have  howled  o'er  Russia's  desolate  plains, 
Where  death-cold  silence  ever  reigns, 
Until  we  come,  with  our  trumpet  breath, 
To  chant  our  anthem  of  fear  and  death  ! 
The  strongest  of  God's  sons  are  we — 
Unchained  and  chainless — ever  free  ! 

We  have  hurled  the  glacier  from  his  rest 
Upon  Chamouni's  treacherous  breast; 
And  we  scatter  the  product  of  human  pride, 
As  forth  on  the  wing  of  the  Storm  we  ride, 
To  visit  with  tokens  of  fearful  power 
The  lofty  arch  and  the  beetling  tower ; 
And  we  utter  defiance,  deep  and  bud, 
To  the  taunting  voice  of  the  bursting  cloud; 
And  we  laugh  with  scorn  at  the  ruin  we  see  • 
Then  away  we  hasten — for  we  are  fre?  t 


12S 


FRANCES    H.   GREEN. 


Old  Neptune  we  call  from  his  ocean-caves 
When  for  pastime  we  dance  on  the  crested  waves ; 
And  we  heap  the  struggling  billows  high 
Against  the  deep  gloom  of  the  sky ; 
Then  we  plunge  in  the  yawning  depths  beneath, 
And  there  on  the  heaving  surges  breathe, 
Till  they  toss  the  proud  ship  like  a  feather, 
And  I,i^ht  and  Hope  expire  together; 
And  the  bravest  cheek  turns  deadly  pale 
At  the  cracking  mast  and  the  rending  sail, 
As  down,  with  headlong  furv  borne, 
Of  ail  her  strength  and  honors  shorn, 
The  good  ship  struggles  to  the  last 
With  the  raging  waters  and  howling  blast. 
WTe  hurry  the  waves  to  their  final  crash, 
And  the  foaming  floods  to  phrensv  lash  ; 
Then  we  pour  our  requiem  on  the  billow, 
As  the  dead  go  down  to  their  ocean  pillow — 
Down  —far  down — to  the  depths  below, 
Where  the  pearls  repose  and  the  sea-gems  glow ; 
Mid  the  coral  groves,  where  the  sea-fan  waves 
Its  palmy  wand  o'er  a  thousand  graves, 
And  the  insect  weaves  her  stony  shroud, 
Alike  o'er  the  humble  and  the  proud, 
What  can  be  mightier  than  we, 
The  strong,  the  chainless,  ever  free  ! 

Now  away  to  our  home  in  the  sparkling  North, 
For  the  Spring  from  her  South-land  is  looking  forth. 
Away,  away,  to  our  arctic  zone, 
Where  the  Frost-King  sits  on  his  flashing  throne, 
With  his  icebergs  piled  up  mountain  high, 
A  wall  of  gems  against  the  sky — 
vVhere  the  stars  look  forth  like  wells  of  light, 
And  the  gleaming  snow-crust  sparkles  bright ! 
We  are  fainting  now  for  the  breath  of  home ; 
Our  journey  is  finished — we  come,  we  come ! 
Away,  away,  over  land  and  sea — 
Unchained  and  chainless — ever  free! 


SONG  OF  THE  EAST  WIND. 

FROM  the  border  of  the  Ganges 
Where  the  gentle  Hindoo  laves, 

And  the  sacred  cow  is  grazing 
By  the  holy  Indian  waves, 

W'e  have  hastened  to  enrol  us 

In  thy  royal  train,  ^Eolus ! 

We  have  stirred  the  soul  of  Brahma, 
Bathed  the  brow  of  Juggernaut, 

Filled  the  self-devoted  widow 

With  a  high  and  holy  thought — 

And  sweet  words  of  comfort  spoken, 

Ere  the  earth-wrought  tie  was  broken  ! 

We  have  nursed  a  thousand  blossoms 
In  that  land  of  light  and  flowers, 

Till  we  fainted  with  the  perfume 

That  oppressed  the  slumbering  Hours 

Dallied  with  the  vestal  tresses 

Which  no  mortal  hand  caresses  ! 

\\  e  have  traced  the  wall  of  China 

To  the  farthest  orient  sea ; 
Ulessed  the  grave  of  old  Confucius 

With  our  sweetest  minstrelsy  ; 


Swelled  the  bosom  of  the  Lama 
To  enact  his  priestly  drama. 

We  have  hurried  off  the  monsoons 

To  far  islands  of  the  deep, 
Where,  oppressed  with  richest  spices, 

All  the  native  breezes  sleep; 
And  in  Ophir's  desert  olden 
Stirred  the  sands  all  bright  and  goldei. 

On  the  brow  of  Chumularee, 

Loftiest  summit  of  the  world, 
We  have  set  a  crown  of  vapor, 

And  the  radiant  snow-wreath  furled 
Bid  the  gem-lit  waters  flow 
From  the  mines  of  Borneo. 
Sighing  through  the  groves  of  banyan 

W7e  have  blessed  the  holy  shade, 
WThere  the  sunbeams  of  the  zenith 

To  a  moonlike  lustre  fade ; 
There  the  fearful  anaconda 
And  the  dark  chimpanzee  wander! 

We  have  roused  the  sleeping  jackal 
From  his  stealthy  noontide  rest ; 

Swelled  the  volume  of  deep  thunder 
In  the  lion's  tawny  breast, 

Till  all  meaner  beasts  fled  quaking 

At  the  desert-monarch's  waking. 

O'er  the  sacred  land  of  Yemen, 
Where  the  first  apostles  trod, 

And  the  patriarch  and  prophet 
Stood  before  the  face  of  God — 

Vital  with  the  deepest  thought, 

Holy  memories  we  have  brought. 

We  have  bowed  the  stately  cedar 

On  the  brow  of  Lebanon, 
And  on  Sinai's  hoary  forehead 

Turned  the  gray  moss  to  the  sun  ; 
Paused  where  Horeb's  shade  reposes, 
Rifled  Sharon's  crown  of  roses. 

We  have  blessed  the  chosen  city 

From  the  brow  of  Olivet, 
Where  the  meek  and  holy  Jesus 

With  his  tears  the  cold  earth  wet — 
Conquering  all  the  hosts  infernal 
With  those  blessed  drops  fraternal. 

We  have  gathered  sacred  legends 

From  the  tide  of  Galilee ; 
Lingered  where  the  waves  of  Jordan 

Meet  the  dark,  unconscious  sea ; 
Murmured  round  the  Hsemian  mountains, 
Stirred  Bethulia's  placid  fountains. 

On  thy  sod,  Gethsemane, 

We  have  nursed  the  passion-flower, 
Stained  with  all  the  fearful  conflict 

Of  the  Savior's  darkest  hour ; 
Stirred  the  shadows  dense  and  deep 
Over  Calvary's  awful  steep. 

We  have  breathed  upon  Parnassus, 
Till  his  softening  lip  of  snow 

Bent  to  kiss  the  fair  Castalia, 
That  lay  murmuring  below — 

Then,  mid  flowers,  went  sighing  on 

Through  the  groves  of  Helicon. 


FRANCES    H.   GREEN. 


129 


We  have  touched  the  lone  acacia 
With  the  utterance  of  a  sigh ; 

Tossed  the  dark,  umbrageous  palm-crown 
Up  against  the  cloudless  sky  ; 

And  along  the  sunny  slope 

Chased  the  bright-eyed  antelope. 

We  have  kissed  the  cheek  of  Beauty 

In  the  harem's  guarded  bowers. 
Where,  amid  their  splendor  sighing, 

Droop  the  love'iest  human  flowers— 
And  the  victim  of  brute  passion 
Languishes  the  fair  Circassian. 

We  K*ve  summoned  from  the  desert 

Giant  messengers  of  Death, 
Treading  with  a  solemn  cadence 

To  the  purple  simoom's  breath — 
Wearing  in  their  awful  ire 
Crown  of  gold  and  robe  of  fire. 

We  have  traversed  mighty  ruins 
Where  the  splendors  of  the  Past, 

In  their  solitary  grandeur, 

Shadows  o'er  the  Present  cast — 

Voiceful  with  the  sculptured  story 

Of  Egypta's  ancient  glory. 

We  have  struck  the  harp  of  Memnon 

With  melodious  unrest, 
When  the  tuneful  sunbeams  glancing, 

Warmed  the  statue's  marble  breast ; 
And  Aurora  bent  with  blessing, 
Her  own  sacred  son  caressing. 

Through  the  stately  halls  of  Carnac, 
Where  the  mouldering  fragments  chime 

On  the  thrilling  chords  of  Ruin, 
To  the  silent  march  of  Time, 

We  have  swept  the  dust  away 

From  the  features  of  Decay. 

We  have  sighed  a  mournful  requiem 
Through  the  cities  of  the  Dead, 

Where,  in  all  the  Theban  mountains, 
Couches  of  the  tomb  are  spread ; 

Farmed  the  Nile ;  and  roused  the  tiger 

From  his  lair  beyond  the  Niger. 

WTe  have  strayed  from  ancient  Memphis, 
Where  the  Sphinx,  with  gentle  brow, 

Seems  to  bind  the  Past  and  Future 
Into  one  eternal  Now ; 

But  we  hear  a  deep  voice  calling — 

And  the  Pyramids  are  falling  ! 

Even  the  wondrous  pile  of  Ghirzeh 

Can  not  keep  its  royal  dead, 
For  the  sleep  of  ages  yieldeth 

To  the  busy  plunderer's  tread  : 
Atom  after  atom — all — 
At  the  feet  of  Time  must  fall ! 

Prostrate  thus  we  bend  before  thee, 

Mighty  sovereign  of  the  Air, 
While  from  all  the  teeming  Orient 

Stories  of  the  past  we  bear : 
Thou,  great  sire,  wilt  ever  cherish 
Memories  which  can  not  perish  ! 
9 


A  SONG  OF  WINTER. 

His  gathering  mantle  of  fleecy  snow 
The  winter-king  wrapped  around  him  ; 

And  flashing  with  ice-wrought  gems  below 
Was  the  regal  zone  that  bound  him : 

He  went  abroad  in  his  kingly  state, 

By  the  poor  man's  door — by  the  palace-gato. 

Then  his  minstrel  winds,  on  either  hand, 

The  music  of  frost-days  humming, 
Flew  fast  before  him  through  all  the  land, 

Crying.  "  Winter — Winter  is  coming!" 
And  they  sang  a  song  in  their  deep,  loud  voice, 
That  made  the  heart  of  their  king  rejoice ; 
For  it  spake  of  strength,  and  it  told  of  power, 

And  the  mighty  will  that  moved  him ; 
Of  all  the  joys  of  the  fireside  hour, 

A:  d  the  gentle  hearts  that  loved  him; 
Of  aiFections  sweetly  interwrought 
With  the  play  of  wit  and  the  flow  of  thought. 

He  has  left  his  home  in  the  starry  North, 

On  a  mission  high  and  holy  ; 
And  now  in  his  pride  he  is  going  forth, 

To  strengthen  the  weak  and  lowly — 
While  his  vigorous  breath  is  on  the  breeze, 
And  he  lifts  up  Health  from  wan  Disease. 

We  bow  to  his  sceptre's  supreme  behest ; 

He  is  rough,  but  never  unfeeling; 
And  a  voice  comes  up  from  his  icy  breast, 

To  our  kindness  ever  appealing  : 
By  the  comfortless  hut,  on  the  desolate  moor, 
He  is  pleading  earnestly  for  the  poor. 
While  deep  in  his  bosom  the  heart  lies  warm, 

And  there  the  future  LIFE  he  cherisheth  ; 
Nor  clinging  root,  nor  seedling  form, 

Its  genial  depths  embracing,  perisheth  ; 
But  safely  and  tenderly  he  will  keep 
The  delicate  flower-gems  while  they  sleep. 

The  Mountain  heard  the  sounding  blast 
Of  the  winds  from  their  wild  horn  blowing, 

And  his  rough  cheek  paled  as  on  they  passed, 
And  the  River  checked  his  flowing; 

Then,  with  ringing  laugh  and  echoing  shout, 

The  merry  schoolboys  all  came  out. 

And  see  them  now,  as  away  they  go, 
With  the  long,  bright  plane  before  them, 

In  its  sparkling  girdle  of  silvery  snow, 
And  the  blue  arch  bending  o'er  them; 

While  every  bright  cheek  brighter  grows, 

Blooming  with  hea  th — our  winter  rose  ! 

The  shrub  looked  up,  and  the  tree  looked  down, 
For  with  ice-gems  each  was  crested ; 

And  flashing  diamonds  lit  the  crown 
That  on  the  old  oak  rested ; 

And  the  forest  shone  in  gorgeous  array, 

For  the  spirits  of  winter  kept  holyday. 

So  on  the  joyous  skaters  fly, 

With  no  thought  of  a  coming  sorrow. 
For  never  a  brightly-beaming  eye 

Has  dreamed  of  the  tears  of  to-morrow  . 
Be  free  and  be  happy,  then,  while  ye  may, 
And  rejoice  in  the  blessing  of  to-day. 


130 


FRANCES   H.  GREEN. 


THE  CHICKADEE'S  SONG. 

O?f  its  downy  wing,  the  snow, 
Hovering,  flyeth  to  and  fro — 
And  the  merry  schoo' boy's  shout, 
Rich  with  joy,  is  ringing  out: 
So  we  gather,  in  our  glee, 
To  the  snow-drifts — Chickadee  ! 

Poets  sing  in  measures  bold 
Of  the  glorious  gods  of  old, 
And  the  nectar  that  they  quaffed, 
When  their  jewelled  goblets  laughed 
But  the  snow-cups  best  love  we, 
Gemmed  with  sunbeams — Chickadee 

They  who  choose,  abroad  may  go, 
Where  the  southern  waters  flow, 
And  the  flowers  are  never  sere 
In  the  garland  of  the  year; 
But  we  love  the  breezes  free 
Of  our  north-land — Chickadee  ! 

To  the  cottage-yard  we  fly, 
With  its  old  trees  waving  high, 
And  the  little  ones  peep  out, 
Just  to  know  what  we're  about ; 
For  they  dearly  love  to  see 
Birds  in  winter — Chickadee  ! 

Every  little  feathered  form 
Has  a  nest  of  mosses  warm ; 
There  our  heavenly  Father's  eye 
Looketh  on  us  fiom  the  sky  ; 
And  he  knoweth  where  we  be — 
And  he  heareth — Chickadee! 

There  we  sit  the  whole  night  long, 
Dreaming  that  a  spirit-song 
Whispereth  in  the  silent  snow  ; 
For  it  has  a  voice  we  know, 
And  it  weaves  our  drapery, 
Soft  as  ermine — Chickadee! 

All  the  strong  winds,  as  they  fly, 
Rock  us  with  their  lullaby — 
Rock  us  till  the  shadowy  Night 
Spreads  her  downy  wings  in  flight: 
Then  we  hasten,  fresh  and  free, 
To  the  snow-fields — Chickadee  ! 

Where  our  harvest  sparkles  bright 
In  the  pleasant  morning  light, 
Every  little  feathery  flake 
Will  a  choice  confection  make — 
Each  globule  a  nectary  be, 
And  we'll  drain  it — Chickadee! 

So  we  never  know  a  fear 
In  this  season  cold  and  drear  ; 
For  to  us  a  share  will  fall 
Of  the  love  that  blesseth  all : 


And  our  Father's  smile  we  see 
On  the  snow-crust — Chickadee  ! 


THE  HONEY-BEE'S  SONG, 

AWAKE,  and  up!  our  own  bright  star 

In  the  saffron  east  is  fading, 
And  the  brimming  honey-cups  near  and  faj 

Their  sweets  are  fast  unlading ; 
Softly,  pleasantly,  murmur  our  song, 
With  joyful  hearts,  as  we  speed  along! 

Off  to  the  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
And  the  fragrant  bazil  is  growing; 

We'll  drink  from  the  heart  of  the  virgin  rose 
The  nectar  that  now  is  flowing ; 

Sing,  for  the  joy  of  the  early  dawn  ! 

Murmur  in  praise  of  the  beautiful  morn ! 

Away,  over  orchard  and  garden  fair, 
With  the  choicest  sweets  all  laden, 

Away  !  or  before  us  she  will  be  there, 
Our  favorite  blue-eyed  maiden, 

Winning  with  Beauty's  magic  power 

Rich  guerdon  from  the  morning  hour. 

Her  cheek  will  catch  the  rose's  blush, 
Her  eye  the  sunbeam's  brightness; 

Her  voice  the  music  of  the  thrush, 
Her  heart  the  vapor's  lightness; 

And  the  pure,  fresh  spirit  of  the  whole 

Shall  fill  her  quick,  expanding  soul. 

Joy,  for  our  queen  is  forth  to-day  ! 

Brave  hearts  rally  about  her; 
Guard  her  well  on  her  flowery  way, 

For  we  could  not  live  without  her ! 
Now  drink  to  the  health  of  our  lady  true 
In  a  crystal  beaker  of  morning  dew  ! 

She  will  sit  near  by  in  the  bending  brake, 
So  pleasant,  and  tall,  and  shady ; 

And  the  sweetest  honey  for  her  we  '11  make — 
Our  own  right-royal  lady! 

We  '11  gather  rich  stores  from  th'e  flowering  vine^ 

And  the  golden  horns  of  the  columbine. 

We  heed  not  the  nettle-king's  bristling  spear, 
Though  we  linger  not  there  the  longest ; 

We  extract  his  honey  without  a  fear, 
For  Love  can  disarm  the  strongest ; 

In  the  rank  cicuta's  poison-cell 

We  know  where  the  drops  of  nectar  dwell! 

Our  Father  has  planted  naught  in  vain — 
Though  in  some  the  honey  is  weaker ; 

Yet  a  drop  in  the  worst  may  sti!l  be  found 
To  comfort  the  earnest  seeker. 

Praise  Him  who  giveth  our  daily  food — 

And  the  Love  that  findeth  all  'lungs  good ! 


JESSIE    G.    McCARTEE. 


JESSIE  G.  BETHUNE,  a  granddaughter  of  the 
celebrated  Isabella  Graham  —  a  daughter  of 
DivieBethune,  a  New  York  merchant,  whose 
life  was  a  series  of  illustrations  of  the  dignity 
and  beauty  of  human  nature  —  and  a  sister 
of  the  Rev.  Dr.  George  W.  Bethune,  so  well 
known  as  one  of  our  most  eloquent  preach 
ers  and  accomplished  authors  —  was  married 
at  an  early  age  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  McCartee, 


who  for  many  years  has  been  minister  of  the 
Reformed  Dutch  Church  in  Goshen,  in  the 
county  of  Orange,  on  the  Hudson.  She  has 
published  a  few  poems  in  the  religious  peri 
odicals,  and  has  written  many  more,  for  the 
joy  the  heavenly  art  yields  to  those  who  wor 
thily  cultivate  it.  All  her  compositions  that 
we  have  read  breathe  of  beauty,  piety,  and 
content. 


THE  INDIAN  MOTHER'S  LAMENT. 

ALL  sad  amid  the  forest  wild 

An  Indian  mother  wept, 
And  fondly  gazed  upon  her  child 

In  death  who  coldly  slept. 

She  decked  its  limbs  with  trembling  hand, 

And  sang  in  accents  low  : 
"Alone,  alone,  to  the  spirit-land, 

My  darling,  thou  must  go ! 

"  I  would  that  I  might  be  thy  guide 

To  that  bright  isle  of  rest — 
To  bear  thee  o'er  the  swelling  tide, 

Clasped  to  my  loving  breast ! 

"I've  wrapped  thee  with  the  beaver's  skin, 

To  shield  thee  from  the  storm, 
And  placed  thy  little  feet  within 

Thy  snow-shoes  soft  and  warm. 
"  I  've  given  tbee  milk  to  cheer  thy  way, 

Mixed  with  the  tears  I  weep ; 
Thy  cradle,  too,  where  thou  must  lay 

Thy  weary  head  to  sleep. 

"  I  place  the  paddle  near  thy  hand, 

To  guide  where  waters  flow; 
For  alone,  alone,  to  the  spirit's  land, 

My  darling,  thou  must  go. 

"  There  bounding  through  the  forests  green, 

Thy  fathers  chase  the  deer, 
Or  on  the  crystal  lakes  are  seen 

The  sleeping  fish  to  spear. 

"  And  thou  some  chieftain's  bride  may  be, 

My  loved  departing  one  : 
Say,  wilt  thou  never  think  of  me, 

So  desolate  and  lone  1 
"I'll  keep  one  lock  of  raven  hair 

Cul!ed  from  thy  still,  cold  brow — 
That  when  I,  too,  shall  travel  there, 

My  daughter  I  may  know. 

"  But  go  ! — to  join  that  happy  band ; 

Vain  is  my  fruitless  wo ; 
For  alone,  alone,  to  the  spirit's  land, 

My  darling,  thou  must  go !" 


THE  EAGLE  OF  THE  FALLS 

EMPRESS  of  the  broad  Missouri! 

Towering  in  thy  storm-rocked  nest, 
Gazing  on  the  wild  waves'  fury — - 

Wondrous  is  thy  place  of  rest. 
Lofty  trees  thy  throne  embowering, 

Gloomy  gulf  around  thine  isle, 
Mists  and  spray  above  thee  showering, 

Guard  thee  from  the  hunter's  wile. 
Walls  of  snow-white  foarn  surround  it, 

Crowned  with  rainbows  pure  and  bright. 
While  the  flinty  rocks  that  bound  it 

Guard  thy  mansion  day  and  night. 
No  Alhambra's  royal  splendor, 

Palaces  of  G.eece  or  Rome, 
E'er  could  boast  of  hues  so  tender, 

Or  of  walls  of  snow-white  foam. 
Yet  this  lofty  scene  of  wonder 

Ne'er  disturbs  thine  eagle  gaze, 
Nor  its  mighty  voice  of  thunder — 

'Tis  the  music  of  thy  days. 

Of  its  voice  thou  art  not  weary, 

Of  its  waters  dost  not  tire ; 
Ancient  as  thine  own  loved  eyry, 

'T  was  the  chorus  of  thy  sire. 

Songs  of  rapture  loudly  swelling 
Laud  the  monarch  on  his  throne, 

But  the  music  of  thy  dwelling 
Chants  the  praise  of  God  alone 

Let  sultanas  boast  their  fountains, 
Gardens  decked  with  costly  flowers 

'Twas  the  Hand  that  buil.t  the  mountain* 
Formed  for  thee  thy  forest  bowers. 

Queens  may  boast  their  halls  of  lightness, 
Blazing  with  the  taper's  rays — 

Crystal  lamps  of  colored  brightness, 
Dazzling  to  their  feeble  gaze  : 

He  who  made  the  moon  so  lovely, 
Called  the  stars  forth  every  one, 

Spread  thine  azure  dome  above  thee, 
Radiant  with  its  pet-rless  sun  ! 

131 


132 


JESSIE   G.  MtCARTEE. 


Empress  eagle  !  spread  thy  pinions, 

Bathe  thy  hreast  in  heaven's  own  light, 

Yet  forsake  not  thy  dominions — 
God  himself  has  made  them  bright. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 

LED  by  his  God,  on  Pisgah's  height 

The  pilgrim-prophet  stood — 
When  first  fair  Canaan  blessed  his  sight, 

And  Jordan's  crystal  flood. 

Behind  him  lay  the  desert  ground 

His  weary  feet  had  trod ; 
While  Israel's  host  encamped  around, 

Still  guarded  by  their  God. 

With  joy  the  aged  Moses  smiled 

On  all  his  wanderings  past, 
While  thus  he  poured  his  accents  mild 

Upon  the  mountain-blast : 

"  I  see  them  all  before  me  now — 

The  city  and  the  plain, 
From  where  bright  Jordan's  waters  flow, 

To  yonder  boundless  main. 

"  Oh  !  there  the  lovely  promised  land 

With  milk  and  honey  flows ; 
Now,  now  my  weary,  murmuring  band 

Shall  find  their  sweet  repose. 

"  There  groves  of  palm  and  myrtle  spread 

O'er  valleys  fair  and  wide  ; 
The  lofty  cedar  rears  its  head 

On  every  mountain-side. 

"  For  them  the  rose  of  Sharon  flings 

Her  fragrance  on  the  gale  ; 
And  there  the  golden  lily  springs, 

The  lily  of  the  vale. 

"Amid  the  olive's  fruitful  boughs 

Is  heard  a  song  of  love, 
For  there  doth  build  and  breathe  her  vows 

The  gentle  turtle-dove. 

"  For  them  shall  bloom  the  clustering  vine, 
The  fig-tree  shed  her  flowers, 

The  citron's  golden  treasures  shine 
From  out  her  greenest  bowers. 

"  For  them,  for  them,  but  not  for  me — 

Their  fruits  I  may  not  eat ; 
Not  Jordan's  stream,  nor  yon  bright  sea, 

Shall  lave  my  pilgrim  feet. 

•'  'Tis  well,  'tis  well,  my  task  is  done, 

Since  Israel's  sons  are  blest : 
Father,  receive  thy  dying  one 

To  thine  eternal  rest !" 

Alone  he  bade  the  world  farewell, 

To  God  his  spirit  fled. 
Now  to  your  tents,  O  Israel, 

And  mourn  your  prophet  dead  ! 


HOW  BEAUTIFUL  IS  SLEEP! 

How  beautiful  is  sleep ! 
Upon  its  mother's  breast, 
How  sweet  the  infant's  rest ! 
And  who  but  she  can  tell  how  dear 
Her  first-born's  breathings  'tis  to  hear? 

Gentle  babe,  prolong  thy  s! umbers, 

When  the  moon  her  light  doth  shed ; 

Still  she  rocks  thy  cradle-bed, 
Singing  in  melodious  numbers, 

Lulling  thee  with  prayer  or  hymn, 

When  all  other  eyes  are  dim. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep  ! 

Behold  the  merry  boy  : 

His  dreams  are  full  of  joy; 

He  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night 

With  tuneful  laugh  of  wild  delight. 
E'en  in  sleep  his  sports  pursuing 
\    Through  the  woodland's  leafy  wild, 

Now  he  roams  a  happy  child, 
Flowrets  all  his  pathway  strewing; 

And  the  morning's  balmy  air 

Brings  to  him  no  toil  or  care. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep  ! 
Where  youthful  Jacob  slept, 
Angels  their  bright  watch  kept, 
And  visions  to  his  soul  were  given 
That  led  him  to  the  gate  of  heaven. 

Exiled  pilgrim,  many  a  morrow, 

When  thine  earthly  schemes  were  crossed^ 
Mourning  o'er  thy  loved  and  lost, 

Thou  didst  sigh  with  holy  sorrow 
For  that  blessed  hour  of  prayer, 
And  exclaim,  "  God  met  me  there  !" 

How  blessed  was  that  sleep 
The  sinless  Savior  knew  ! 
In  vain  the  storm-winds  blew, 
Till  he  awoke  to  others'  woes, 
And  hushed  the  billows  to  repose. 

Why  did  ye  the  Master  waken  ] 

Faithless  ones  !  there  came  an  hour, 
When,  alone  in  mountain  bower, 

By  his  loved  ones  all  forsaken, 
He  was  left  to  pray  and  weep, 
When  ye  all  were  wrapped  in  sleep. 

How  beautiful  is  sleep — 
The  sleep  that  Christians  know ! 
Ye  mourners,  cease  your  wo, 
While  soft  upon  his  Savior's  breast 
The  righteous  sinks  to  endless  rest. 

Let  him  go  :  the  day  is  breaking  ! 

Watch  no  more  around  his  bed, 

For  his  parted  soul  hath  fled. 
Bright  will  be  his  heavenly  waking, 

And  the  morn  that  greets  his  sight 

Never  ends  in  death  or  night 


CYNTHIA    TAGGART. 


(Born  1801-Died  1849). 


THE  painfully  in. cresting  history  of  this 
unfortunate  woman  has  been  vvritten  by  the 
Rev.  James  C.  Richmond,  in  a  little  work 
entitled  The  Rhode  Island  Cottage,  and  in  a 
brief  autobiography  prefixed  to  the  editions 
of  her  poems  published  in  1834  and  1848. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a  soldier,  whose  prop 
erty  was  destroyed  during  the  Revolution, 
and  who  died  in  old  age  and  poverty  at  a 
place  near  the  seashore,  about  six  miles  from 
Newport,  where  he  had  lived  in  pious  resig 
nation  amid  trials  that  would  have  wrecked 
a  less  vigorous  and  trustful  nature.  Miss 
Taggart's  education  was  very  slight,  and  un 
til  sickness  deprived  her  of  all  other  occupa 
tion,  about  the  year  1822,  when  she  was  nine 
teen  years  of  age,  she  appears  never  to  have 
thought  of  literary  composition.  My  friend 
Dr.  John  W.  Francis  writes  to  me  of  her  : 
"An  intimate  acquaintance,  derived  from 
professional  observation,  has  long  rendered 
me  well  informed  of  the  remarkable  circum 
stances  connected  with  the  severe  chronic 
infirmities  of  CYNTHIA  TAGGART.  From  her 
early  infancy,  during  the  period  of  her  ado 
lescence,  and  indeed  through  the  whole  dura 
tion  of  her  life,  she  has  been  the  victim  of 
almost,  unrecorded  anguish.  The  annals  of 
medical  philosophy  may  be  searched  in  vain 
for  a  more  striking  example  than  the  case 
of  this  lady  affords  of  that  distinctive  twofold 
state  of  vitality  with  which  we  are  endowed, 


the  intellectual  and  the  physical  being.  The 
precarious  tenure  by  which  they  have  con 
tinued  so  long  united  in  so  frail  a  tenement, 
must  remain  matter  of  astonishment  to  ev 
ery  beholder  ;  and  when  reflection  is  sum 
moned  to  the  contemplation  of  the  extraor 
dinary  manifestations  of  thought  which  un 
der  such  a  state  of  protracted  and  incurable 
suffering  she  often  exhibits,  psychological 
science  encounters  a  problem  of  most  dif 
ficult  solution.  Mind  seems  independent 
of  matter,  and  intellectual  triumphs  appear 
to  be  within  the  reach  of  efforts  unaided  by 
the  ordinary  resources  of  corporeal  organiza 
tion.  That  this  condition  must  ere  long  ter 
minate  disastrously  is  certain  ;  yet  the  phe 
nomena  of  mind  amid  the  ruins  of  the  body 
constitute  a  subject  of  commanding  interest 
to  every  philanthropist.  Churchill  has  truly 
said,  in  his  epistle  to  Hogarth: 

'  With  curious  art  the  brain  too  finely  wrought, 
Preys  on  herself,  and  is  destroyed  by  thought.' " 

Miss  Taggart  and  a  widowed  sister,  who 
is  also  an  invalid,  still  live  in  their  paternal 
home  by  the  seashore,  and  they  await  with 
pious  resignation  the  only  change  that  can 
free  them  from  suffering.  The  poems  that 
are  here  quoted  have  sufficient  merit  to  in 
terest  the  reader  of  taste,  though  he  forget 
the  extraordinary  circumstances  under  which 
they  were  produced.  Miss  Taggart's  poems 
have  passed  through  three  editions. 


ODE  TO  THE  POPPY. 

THOUGH  varied  wreaths  of  myriad  hues, 

As  beams  of  mingling  light, 
Sparkle  replete  with  pearly  dews, 
Waving  their  tinted  leaves  profuse, 

To  captivate  the  sight ; 
Though  fragrance,  sweet  exhaling,  blend 

With  the  soft,  balmy  air, 
And  gentle  zephyrs,  wafting  wide 
Their  spicy  odors  bear ; 
While  to  the  eye, 
Delightingly, 

Each  floweret  laughing  blooms, 
And  o'er  the  fields 
Prolific,  yields 


Its  increase  of  perfumes; 
Yet  one  alone  o'er  all  the  plain, 

With  lingering  eye,  I  view  ; 
Hasty  I  pass  the  brightest  bower, 
Heedless  of  each  attractive  flower, 

Its  brilliance  to  pursue. 

No  odors  svveev  proclaim  the  spot 
Where  its  soft  leaves  unfold  ; 
Nor  mingled  hues  of  beauty  bright 
Charm  and  allure  the  captive  sight 
With  forms  and  tints  untold. 

One  simple  hue  the  plant  portrays 
Of  glowing  radiance  rare, 

Fresh  as  the  roseate  morn  displays, 
And  seeming  sweet  and  fair. 
133 


CYNTHIA   TAGGART. 


But  closer  pressed,  an  odorous  breath 

Repels  the  rover  gay  ; 
And  from  her  hand  witli  eager  haste 

'T  is  careless  thrown  away  ; 
And  thoughtless  that  in  evil  hour 
Disease  may  happiness  devour, 
And  her  fairy  form,  elastic  now, 
To  Misery's  wand  may  helpless  how. 

Then  Reason  leads  wan  Sorrow  forth 

To  seek  the  lonely  flower; 
And  blest  Experience  kindly  proves 

Its  mitigating  power. 

Then  its  bright  hue  the  sight  can  trace, 

The  brilliance  of  its  bloom; 
Though  misery  veil  the  weeping  eyes, 
Though  sorrow  choke  the  breath  with  sighs, 

And  life  deplore  its  doom. 

This  magic  flower 
In  desperate  hour 
A  balsam  mild  shall  yield, 

When  the  sad,  sinking  heart 
Feels  every  aid  depart, 
And  every  gate  of  hope  for  ever  sealed. 

Then  still  its  potent  charm 

Each  agony  disarm, 
And  its  all-healing  power  shall  respite  give : 

The  frantic  sufferer,  then, 

Convulsed  and  wild  with  pain, 
Shall  own  the  sovereign  remedy,  and  live. 

The  dews  of  slumber  now 

Rest  on  her  aching  brow, 
And  o'er  the  languid  lids  balsamic  fall; 

While  fainting  Nature  hears, 

With  dissipated  fears, 
The  lowly  accents  of  soft  Somnus'  call. 

Then  will  Affection  twine 
Around  this  kindly  flower; 

And  grateful  Memory  keep 

How,  in  the  arms  of  Sleep, 
Affliction  lost  its  power. 


INVOCATION  TO  HEALTH. 

O  HEALTH,  thy  succoring  aid  extend 
While  low  with  bleeding  heart  I  bend, 
And  on  thine  every  means  attend, 

And  sue  with  streaming  eyes; 
But  more  remote  thou  fliest  away, 
The  humbler  I  thine  influence  pray  : 

And  expectation  dies. 
Twice  three  long  years  of  life  have  gone, 
Since  thy  loved  presence  was  withdrawn, 

And  I  to  grief  resigned; 
Laid  on  a  couch  of  lingering  pain, 
Wrhere  stern  Disease's  torturing  chain 

Has  every  limb  confined 

Oh  bathe  my  burning  temples  now, 
And  cool  the  scorching  of  my  brow, 

And  light  the  rayless  eye; 
My  strength  revive  with  thine  own  might, 
*nd  with  thy  footsteps  firm  and  light 


Oh  bear  me  to  thy  radiant  height, 

W'hcre,  soft  reposing,  lie 
Mild  peace,  and  happiness,  and  joy, 
And  Nature's  sweets  that  never  cloy, 
Unmixed  with  any  dire  alloy — 

Leave  me  not  thus  to  die ! 


AUTUMN. 

Now  Autumn  tints  the  scene 
With  sallow  hues  serene ; 

And  o'er  the  sky 

Fast  hurrying,  fly 
Dark,  sombre  clouds,  that  pour 
From  far  the  roaring  din ; 
The  rattling  rain  and  hail, . 
With  the  deep-sounding  wail 
Of  wild  and  warring  melodies,  begin. 

The  wind  flies  fitful  through  the  forest-trees 
M  ith  hollow  howlings  and  in  wrathful  mood ; 
As  when  some  maniac  fierce,  disdaining  ease. 
Tears  with  convulsive  power, 
In  horrid  Fury's  hour, 
His  locks  dishevelled  ;  and  a  chilling  moan 
Breathes  from  his  tortured  breast,  with  dread  anJ 
dismal  tone. 

Thus  the  impetuous  blast 
Doth  from  the  woodlands  tear 
The  leaves,  when  Summer's  reign  is  past, 
And  sings  aloud  the  requiem  of  Despair ; 
Pours  ceaseless  the  reverberated  sigh, 
WThile  past  the  honors  of  the  forest  fly, 
Kiss  the  low  ground,  and  flutter,  shrink,  and  die 


ON  A  STORM. 

THE  harsh,  terrific  howling  Storm, 
With  its  wild,  dreadful,  dire  alarm, 

Turns  pale  the  cheek  of  Mirth ; 
And  low  it  bows  the  lofty  trees, 
And  their  tall  branches  bend  with  ease 

To  kiss  their  parent  Earth. 

The  rain  and  hail  in  torrents  pour ; 
The  furious  winds  impetuous  roar — 

In  hollow  murmurs  clash. 
The  shore  adjacent  joins  the  sound, 
And  angry  surges  deep  resound, 

And  foaming  billows  dash. 

Yet  ocean  doth  no  fear  impart, 

But  soothes  my  anguish-swollen  heart, 

And  calms  my  feverish  brain ; 
It  seems  a  sympathizing  friend, 
That  doth  with  mine  its  troubles  blend, 

To  mitigate  my  pain. 

In  all  the  varying  shades  of  wo, 
The  night  relief  did  ne'er  bestow, 

Nor  have  I  respite  seen  : 
Then  welcome,  Storm,  loud,  wild,  and  rude 
To  me  thou  art  more  kind  and  good 

Than  aught  that  is  serena. 


FRANCESCA    CANFIELD. 


(Born  1803-Died  1823). 


FRANCESCA  ANNA  PASCALIS,  a  daughter  of 
Dr.  FeJix  Pascalis,  an  Italian  physician  and 
scholar,  who  had  married  a  native  of  Phila 
delphia,  and  resided  several  years  in  that  city, 
was  born  in  August,  1803.  While  she  was 
a  child  her  parents  removed  to  New  York, 
where  Dr.  Pascalis  was  conspicuous  not  only 
for  his  professional  abilities,  but  for  his  wri 
tings  upon  various  curious  and  abstruse  sub 
jects  in  philosophy,  and  was  intimate  with 
many  eminent  persons,  among  whom  was 
Dr.  Samuel  L.  Mitchill,  who  was  so  pleased 
with  Francesca,  that  in  1815,  when  she  was 
in  the  twelfth  year  of  her  age,  he  addressed 
to  her  the  following  playful  and  characteris 
tic  Valentine  : 

Descending  snows  the  earth  o'erspread, 
Keen  blows  the  northern  blast ; 

Condensing  clouds  scowl  over  head, 
The  tempest  gathers  fast. 

But  soon  the  icy  mass  shall  melt, 

The  winter  end  his  reign, 
The  sun's  reviving  warmth  be  felt, 

And  nature  smile  again. 

The  plants  from  torpid  sleep  shall  wake, 
And,  nursed  by  vernal  showers, 

Their  yearly  exhibition  make 
Of  foliage  and  of  flowers. 

So  you  an  opening  bud  appear, 
Whose  bloom  and  verdure  shoot, 

To  load  Francesca's  growing  year 
With  intellectual  fruit. 

The  feathered  tribes  shall  flit  along, 

And  thicken  on  the  trees, 
Till  air  shall  undulate  with  song, 

Till  music  stir  the  breeze. 

Thus,  like  a  charming  bird,  your  lay 

The  listening  ear  shall  greet, 
And  render  social  circles  gay, 

Or  make  retirement  sweet. 

Then  warblers  chirp,  and  roses  ope, 

To  entertain  my  fair, 
Till  nobler  themes  engage  her  hope, 

And  occupy  her  care. 

In  school  Miss  Pascalis  was  particularly 
distinguished  for  the  facility  with  which  she 
acquired  languages.  At  an  early  period  she 
translated  with  ease  and  elegance  from  the 
French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and.  Portuguese, 
and  her  instinctive  appreciation  of  the  har 


monies  of  her  native  tongut  was  fee  delicate 
that  her  English  compositions,  in  both  prose 
and  verse,  were  singularly  musical  as  well 
as  expressive  and  correct.  The  version  of  a 
French  song,  "  Quand  revcrrai-je  en  un  jour," 
etc.  is  among  the  memorials  of  her  fourteenth 
year,  and  though  much  less  compact  than  the 
original,  it  is  interesting  as  an  illustration  ol 
her  own  fine  and  precocious  powers. 

While  yet  at  school  Miss  Pascalis  trans 
lated  for  a  friend  a  volume  from  Lavater,  and 
soon  afterward  she  made  a  beautiful  English 
version  of  the  Roman  Nights  from  Le  Notti 
Romane  al  Sepolcro  Dei  Scipioni  of  Ales- 
sandro  Verri.  She  also  translated  The  Soli 
tary  and  The  Vine  Dresser  from  the  French, 
and  wrote  some  original  poems  in  Italian 
which  were  much  praised  by  judicious  critics. 
She  was  a  frequent  contributor,  under  vari 
ous  signatures,  to  the  literary  journals  ;  and 
among  her  pieces  for  this  period  that  are 
preserved  in  Mr.  Knapp's  biography,  is  an 
address  to  her  friend  Mitchill,  which  pur 
ported  to  be  from  Le  Brun. 

A  "  marriage  of  convenience"  was  arranged 
for  Miss  Pascalis  with  Mr.  Canfield,  a  broker, 
who  after  a  few  months  became  a  bankrupt, 
and  could  never  retrieve  his  fortunes.  She 
bore  her  disappointments  without  complain- 
in  o-,  and  when  her  husband  establi  shed  a  finan 
cial  and  commercial  gazette,  she  labored  in 
dustriously  to  make  it  attractive  by  literature; 
but  there  was  a  poor  opportunity  among  ta 
bles  of  currency  and  trade  fur  the  display  of 
her  graceful  abilities,  and  her  writings  prob 
ably  attracted  little  attention.  She  was  a 
good  pianist,  and  she  painted  with  such  skill 
that  some  of  her  copies  of  old  masters  de 
ceived  clever  artists.  Her  accomplishments 
however  failed  to  invest  with  happiness  a 
life  of  which  the  ambitious  flowers  had  been 
so  early  blighted,  and  yielding  to  consump 
tion,  which  can  scarcely  enter  the  home  of 
a  cheerful  spirit,  she  died  on  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  May,  1823,  before  completing  the 
twentieth  year  of  her  age. 

Dr.  Pascalis,  whose  chief  hopes  wei»  cen 
tred  in  his  daughter,  abandoned  his  pursuits. 


136 


FRANCESCA    CANFIELD. 


and  after  lingering  through  ten  disconsolate 
years,  died  in  the  summer  of  1833  ;  and  the 
death  of  her  husband,  in  the  following  au 


tumn,  prevented  the  publication  of  an  edition 
of  her  works,  which  he  had  prepared  for  thai 
purpose. 


TO  DR.  M1TCHILL. 

WRITTEN  IN  HER  SEVENTEENTH  YEAR. 

MITCHILL,  although  the  envious  frown, 

Their  idle  wrath  disdain  ! 
Upon  thy  bright  and  pure  renown, 

They  can  not  cast  a  stain. 
Ida,  the  heaven-crowned,  feels  the  storm 
Rave  fiercely  round  her  towering  form, 

Her  brow  it  can  not  gain, 
Calm,  sonny,  in  majestic  pride, 
It  marks  the  powerless  blast  subside. 

And  didst  thou  ever  hope  to  stand 

So  glorious  and  so  high, 
Receive  all  honor  and  command, 

Nor  meet  a  jealous  eye  '! 
No,  thou  must  expiate  thy  fame, 
Thy  noble,  thy  exalted  name  ; 

Yet  pass  thou  proudly  by  ! 
The  torrent  may  with  vagrant  force 
Disturb,  but  can  not  change  thy  course. 

Or,  shou'.dst  thou  dread  the  threats  to  brave 

Of  malice,  wilful,  dire, 
Break  thou  the  sceptre  genius  gave, 

And  quench  thy  spirit's  fire ; 
Down  from  thy  heights  of  soul  descend, 
Thy  flaming  pinions  earthward  bend, 

Fulfil  thy  foe's  desire; 
Thy  immortality  contemn, 
And  walk  in  common  ways  with  them. 
The  lighter  tasks  of  wit  and  mind 

Let  fickle  Taste  adore  ; 
But  Genius'  flight  is  unconfined 

O'er  prostrate  time  to  soar. 
How  glows  he,  when  Ambition  tears 
The  veil  from  gone  and  coming  years ; 

While  ages  past  before, 
To  him  their  future  being  trust, 
Though  empires  crumble  into  dust. 

Without  this  magic,  which  the  crowd 

Nor  comprehend,  nor  feel, 
Cou'.d  Genius'  son  have  ever  vowed 

His  ductile  heart  to  steel, 
'Gainst  ail  that  leads  the  human  breast, 
To  turn  to  Indo'ence  and  rest; 

From  Science'  haunts  to  steal, 
To  beauty,  wealth,  and  ease,  and  cheer- 
All  that  delight  the  senses  here  1 
And  thus  he  earns  a  meed  of  praise 

From  nations  yet  unborn  ; 
Still  he,  whom  present  pomp  repays, 

His  arduous  toil  may  scorn; 
But  wiser,  sure,  than  hoard  the  rose, 
Which  low  for  each  way  fare!  blows, 

And  lives  a  summer  morn, 
To  climb  me  rocky  mountain  way 
And  gather  the  unfading  bay. 


Yet  wo  for  him  whose  mental  worth 
Fame's  thousand  tongues  resound  ! 
While  living,  every  worm  of  earth 

Seems  privileged  to  wound. 
His  victory  not  the  less  secure, 
Let  him  the  strife  with  nerve  endure, 

In  death  his  triumph  found ; 
Then  worlds  shall  with  each  other  vie, 
To  spread  the  name  that  can  not  die. 


EDITH. 

Bv  those  blue  eyes  that  shine 
Dovelike  and  innocent, 
Yet  with  a  lustre  to  their  softness  lent 

By  the  chaste  fire  of  guileless  purity, 

And  by  the  rounded  temple's  symmetry; 

And  by  the  auburn  locks,  disposed  apart, 
(Like  Virgin  Mary's  pictured  o'er  the  shrine,) 

In  simple  negligence  of  art ; 

By  the  young  smile  on  lips  whose  accents  fall 

With  dulcet  music,  bland  to  all, 

Like  downward  floating  blossoms  from  the  trees 

Detached  in  silver  showers  by  playful  breeze ; 

And  by  thy  cheek,  ever  so  purely  pale, 

Save  when  thy  heart  with  livelier  kindness  glows; 
By  its  then  tender  bloom,  whose  delicate  hue, 

Is  like  the  morning's  tincture  of  the  rose, 
The  snowy  veils  of  the  gossamer  mist  seen  through; 

And  by  the  flowing  outline's  grace, 
Around  thy  features  like  a  halo  thrown, 

Reminding  of  that  noble  race  [known, 

Beneath  a  lovelier   heaven  in  .kindlier  climates 
Whose  beauty,  both  the  moral  and  the  mortal, 
Stood  at  perfection's  portal 

And  still  doth  hold  a  rank  surpassing  all  compare 
By  the  divinely  meek  and  placid  air 
Which  witnesseth  so  well  that  all  the  charms 

It  lights  and  warms, 

Though  but  the  finer  fashion  of  the  clay 
Deserve  to  be  adored,  since  they 
Are  emanations  from  a  soul  allowed 

Thus  radiantly  to  glorify  its  dwelling 
That  goodness  like  a  visible  thing  avowed, 
May  awe  and  win,  and  temper  and  prevail : 

And  by  all  these  combined  ! 
I  call  upon  thy  form  ideal, 

So  deeply  in  my  memory  shrined, 
To  rise  before  my  vision,  like  the  real, 

Whenever  passion's  tides  are  swelling, 
)r  vanity  misleads,  or  discontent 
lages  with  wishes,  vain  and  impotent. 
Then,  while  the  tumults  of  my  heart  increase, 
I  call  upon  thy  image — then  to  rise 
n  sweet  and  solemn  beauty,  like  the  moon, 
Resplendent  in  the  firmament  of  June, 
Through  the  still  hours  of  night  to  lonely  eyes. 

gaie  and  muse  thereon,  and  tempests  cease 

4nd  round  me  falls  an  atmosphere  of  peace. 


ELIZABETH    BOGART. 


Miss  ELIZABETH  BOGART,  descended  from 
a  Huguenot  family  distinguished  in  the  mer- 
camile  and  social  history  of  New  York,  and 
a  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  David  S.  Bogart, 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  divines  of  the 
last  generation,  was  born  in  the  city  of  New 
York.  Her  father  was  shortly  afterward  set 
tled  as  a  minister  of  the  Presbyterian  Church 
at  Southampton,  on  Long  Island.  In  1813 
his  connexion  with  that  congregation  was 
dissolved,  and  he  removed  to  North  Hemp- 
stead,  where  he  was  installed  in  the  Re 
formed  Dutch  Church,  in  which  he  had  been 
educated.  In  1826,  he  removed  again  to 
New  York,  where  his  family  have  since  re 
sided. 

About  the  year  1825  Miss  Bogart  began  to 
write,  under  the  signature  of  "Estelle,"  for 


the  New  York  Mirror,  then  recently  estab 
lished ;  and  her  contributions,  in  prose  and 
verse,  to  this  and  other  periodicals,  would 
fill  several  volumes.  Among  tbem  are  two 
prize  stories  —  The  Effect  of  a  Single  Folly, 
and  The  Forged  Note  —  which  evince  a  con 
structive  ability  that  would  not,  perhaps,  be 
inferred  from  her  other  compositions,  many 
of  which  are  of  a  very  desultory  character. 
Miss  Bogart  has  ease,  force,  and  a  degree 
of  fervor,  which  might  have  placed  her  in 
the  front  rank  of  our  female  authors  ;  but  al 
most  everything  she  has  given  to  the  public 
has  an  impromptu  air,  which  shows  that  lit 
erature  has  scarcely  been  cultivated  by  her 
as  an  art,  while  it  has  constantly  been  re 
sorted  to  for  the  utterance  of  feelings  which 
could  find  no  other  suitable  expression. 


AN  AUTUMN  VIEW,  FROM  MY  WINDOW. 

I  GAZE  with  raptured  eyes 
Upon  the  lovely  landscape,  as  it  lies 

Outstretched  before  my  window:  even  now 
The  mist  is  sailing  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
For  it  is  early  morning,  and  the  sun 
His  course  has  just  begun. 

How  beautiful  the  scene 
Of  hill  on  hill  arising,  while  between 
The  river  like  a  Silvery  streak  appears, 
And  rugged  rocks,  the  monuments  of  years, 
Resemble  the  old  castles  on  the  Rhine, 
Which  look  down  on  the  vine. 

No  clustering  grapes,  'tis  true, 
Hang  from  these  mountain-sides  to  meet  the  view; 
But  fairer  than  the  vineyards  is  the  sight 
Of  our  luxuriant  forests,  which,  despite 
The  change  of  nations,  hold  their  ancient  place, 
Lost  to  the  Indian  race. 
Untiring  I  survey 

The  prospect  from  my  window,  day  by  day : 
Something  forgotten,  though  just  seen  before, 
Something  of  novelty  or  beauty  more 
Than  yet  discovered,  ever  charms  my  eyes, 
And  wakes  a  fresh  surprise. 

And  thus,  when  o'er  my  heart 
A  weary  thought  is  stealing,  while  apart 
From  friends  and  the  gay  world  I  sit  alone, 
With  life's  dark  veil  upon  the  future  thrown, 
I  look  from  out  my  window,  and  there  find 
A  solace  for  the  mind. 


The  Indian  Summer's  breath 
Sighs  gently  o'er  the  fallen  leaflet's  death, 
And  bids  the  frost-king  linger  on  his  way 
Till  Autumn's  tints  have  brightened  o'er  decay. 
What  other  clime  can  such  rich  painting  show  1 
Tell  us,  if  any  know ! 


RETROSPECTION. 

AN  EXTRACT. 

I'M  weary  with  thinking!  with  visions  that  pass 
So  thickly  and  gloomily  over  my  brain, 

In  which  are  reflected  through  Memory's  glass 
The  lost  scenes  of  youth  which  return  not  again. 

Oh !  now  I  look  back  and  remember  the  hours 
When  I  wished  that  a  time  of  sweet  leisure  might 

come, 
When,  freed  from  employments  and  studies,  tlie 

powers 
Of  thought  were  all  loosened,  in  fancy  to  roam. 

That  time  has  arrived.  Care  nor  business  conspire 
To  restrain  the  mind's  freedom,  nor  press  on  the 
heart; 

No  stern  prohibition  hangs  over  the  lyre,  ' 

To  bid  all  its  bright  inspirations  depart. 

But  how  has  it  tutne  1 — Oh  !  by  breaking  the  ties 

Of  affection  and  kindred,  and  snatching  away 
The  beloved  from  around  me,  whose  praise  was  the 

prize 

Which  lured  me  in  Poesy's  pathway  to  stray. 
137 


138 


ELIZABETH   BOGART. 


FORGETFULNESS. 

WE  parted  ! — Friendship's  dream  had  cast 

Deep  interest  o'er  the  brief  farewell, 
And  left  upon  the  shadowy  past 

Full  many  a  thought  on  which  to  dwell: 
Such  thoughts  as  come  in  early  youth, 

And  live  in  fellowship  with  hope; 
Robed  in  the  brilliant  hues  of  truth, 

Unfitted  with  the  world  to  cope. 

We  parted.     He  went  o'er  the  sea, 

And  deeper  solitude  was  mine ; 
Yet  there  remained  in  memory 

For  feeling  still  a  sacred  shrine : 
And  Thought  and  Hope  were  offered  up 

Till  their  ethereal  essence  fled,          » 
And  Disappointment  from  the  cup 

Its  dark  libations  poured  instead. 

We  parted.     'T  was  an  idle  dream 

That  thus  we  e'er  should  meet  again  ; 
For  who  that  knew  man's  heart,  would  deem 

That  it  could  long  unchanged  remain  1 — 
He  sought  a  foreign  clime,  and  learned 

Another  language,  which  expressed 
To  strangers  the  rich  thoughts  that  burned 

With  unquenched  power  within  his  breast. 

And  soon  he  better  loved  to  speak 

In  those  new  accents  than  his  own ; 
His  native  tongue  seemed  cold  and  weak 

To  breathe  the  wakened  passions'  tone. 
He  wandered  far,  and  lingered  long, 

And  drank  so  deep  of  Lethe's  stream, 
That  each  new  feeling  grew  more  strong, 

And  all  the  past  was  like  a  dream. 

We  met — a  few  glad  words  were  spoken, 

A  few  kind  glances  were  exchanged ; 
But  friendship's  first  romance  was  broken — 

His  had  been  from  me  estranged. 
I  felt  it  all — we  met  no  more — 

.My  heart  was  true,  but  it  was  proud; 
Life's  early  confidence  was  o'er, 

And  hope  had  set  beneath  a  cloud. 

We  met  no  more — for  neither  sought 

To  reunite  the  severed  chain 
Of  social  intercourse  ;  for  naught 

Could  join  its  parted  links  again. 
Too  much  of  the  wide  world  had  been 

Between  us  for  too  long  a  time, 
And  he  had  looked  on  many  a  scene, 

The  beautiful  and  the  sublime. 

And  he  had  themes  on  which  to  dwell, 

And  memories  that  were  not  mine, 
Which  formed  a  separating  spell, 

And  drew  a  mystic  boundary  line. 
His  thoughts  were  wanderers — and  the  things 

Which  brought  back  friendship's  joys  to  me, 
To  him  were  but  the  spirit's  wings 

Which  bore  him  o'er  the  distant  sea. 


For  he  had  seen  the  evening  star 

Glancing  its  rays  o'er  ocean's  waves, 
And  marked  the  moonbeams  from  afar, 

Lighting  the  Grecian  heroes'  graves ; 
And  he  had  gazed  on  trees  and  flowers 

Beneath  Italia's  sunny  skies, 
And  listened,  in  fair  ladies'  bowers, 

To  Genius'  words  and  Beauty's  sighs. 

His  steps  had  echoed  through  the  halls 

Of  grandeur,  long  left  desolate ; 
And  he  had  climbed  the  crumbling  walls, 

Or  oped  perforce  the  hingeless  gate ; 
And  mused  o'er  many  an  ancient  pile, 

In  ruin  still  magnificent, 
Whose  histories  could  the  hours  beguile 

With  dreams,  before  to  Fancy  lent. 

Such  recollections  come  to  him, 

With  moon,  and  stars,  and  summer  flowers 
To  me  they  bring  the  shadows  dim 

Of  earlier  and  of  happier  hours. 
I  would  those  shadows  darker  fell — 

For  life,  with  its  best  powers  to  bless, 
Has  but  few  memories  loved  as  well 

Or  welcome  as  forgetfulness  ! 


HE  CAME  TOO  LATE. 

HE  came  too  late  ! — Neglect  had  tried 

Her  constancy  too  long  ; 
Her  love  had  yielded  to  her  pride, 

And  the  deep  sense  of  wrong. 
She  scorned  the  offering  of  a  heart 

Which  lingered  on  its  way, 
Till  it  could  no  delight  impart, 

Nor  spread  one  cheering  ray. 

He  came  too  late ! — At  once  he  felt 

That  all  his  power  was  o'er  : 
Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwelt —  . 

She  thought  of  him  no  more. 
Anger  and  grief  had  passed  away, 

Her  heart  and  thoughts  were  free ; 
She  met  him,  and  her  words  were  gay — 

No  spell  had  Memory. 

He  came  too  late ! — The  subtle  chords 

Of  love  were  all  unbound. 
Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound. 
She  knew  that  life  held  nothing  now 

That  could  the  past  repay, 
Yet  she  disdained  his  tardy  vow, 

And  coldly  turned  away. 

He  came  too  late  ! — Her  countless  dreams 

Of  hope  had  long  since  flown  ; 
No  charms  dwelt  in  his  chosen  themes, 

Nor  in  his  whispered  tone. 
And  when,  with  word  and  smile,  he  tried 

Affection  still  to  prove, 
She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman's  pride, 

And  spurned  his  fickle  love. 


MARY    E.    BROOKS. 


Miss  MARY  E.  AIKEN,  a  native  of  New 
York,  was  for  several  years  a  contributor  to 
the  Mirror  and  other  periodicals,  under  the 
signature  of  "Norna,"  her  sister,  during  the 
same  period,  writing  under  the  pseudonyme 
of  "Hinda."  In  1828  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  James  G.  Brooks,  a  gentleman  of  fine 
abilities,  who  was  well  known  as  the  author 
of  many  graceful  pieces,  in  prose  and  verse, 
signed  "  Florio."  In  the  following  year  ap 
peared  a  volume  entitled  The  Rivals  of  Este 
and  other  Poems,  by  James  G.  and  Mary  E 
Brooks.  The  leading  composition,  from 
which*  the  collection  had  its  name,  is  by 


Mrs.  Brooks.  It  is  a  stcry  of  passion,  and  the 
principal  characters  are  of  the  ducal  house 
of  Ferrara.  Her  Hebrew  Melodies,  and  other 
short  poems,  in  the  same  volume,  are  written 
with  more  care,  and  have  much  more  merit. 
Mr.  Brooks  was  at  this  time  connected 
with  one  of  the  New  York  journals ;  but  in 
1830  he  removed  to  Winchester,  in  Virginia, 
where  he  was  for  several  years  editor  of  a 
political  and  literary  gazette.  In  1838  he 
returned  to  New  York,  and  established  him 
self  in  Albany,  where  he  remained  until  his 
death,  in  February,  1841,  from  which  time 
Mrs.  Brooks  has  resided  in  New  York. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR. 

"  The  everlasting  to  be  which  halli  been 
Hath  taught  u*  naught  or  little." 

FROM  the  deep  and  stirring  tone, 
Ever  on  the  midnight  breaking, 

Came  a  whisper  thrill  and  lone 
O'er  my  silent  vigil  waking  : 

"  Come  to  me  !  the  dreamy  hour 

Fades  before  the  spoiler's  power  ! 

Come  !  the  passing  tide  is  strong, 

A=  it  bears  thy  life  along  ; 

Soon  another  seal  for  thee 

Stamps  the  stern  Futurity. 

Bow  thee — bend  thee  to  the  light 

Stealing  on  thy  spirit  sight, 

From  the  bygone's  faded  bloom, 

From  the  shadow  and  the  gloom, 

From  each  strange  and  changeful  scene 

Which  amid  thy  path  has  been ; 

And  oh,  let  it  wake  for  thee, 

Beacon  of  the  days  to  be  !" 

Soft  before  my  sight  was  spreading 
Many  a  sweet  and  sunny  flower; 
Pleasure  bright,  her  promise  shedding, 

Gilded  o'er  each  fairy  bower  : 
Oh,  it  was  a  laughing  glee, 
Hanging  o'er  Futurity  ; 
Blisses  mid  young  beauties  blooming — 
Hopes,  no  sullen  griefs  entombing — 
Loves  that  vowed  to  link  for  ever, 
Cold  or  blighted,  never — never; 
Not  a  shadow  on  the  dome 
Fancy  reared  for  days  to  come — 
Not  a  dream  of  sleeping  ill 
There  her  rushing  tide  to  chill ; 
Gayly  lay  each  glittering  morrow : 
And  I  turned  me  half  in  sorrow, 


As  that  phantom  beckoned  back, 
To  retrace  Life's  fading  track. 
Sinking  in  the  broad  dim  ocean, 

Shadows  blending  o'er  its  bier, 
Slow  from  being's  wild  commotion, 

Saw  I  pass  another  year. 
There  was  but  a  misty  cloud 
Bending  o'er  a  silent  shroud  ; 
Hope,  fame,  rapture — loved  and  gay — 
Tell,  oh  tell  me,  where  were  they  1 
Idols  once  in  sunlight  glancing, 

Ay,  that  claimed  each  starting  sigh, 
With  the  green-leafed  promise  dancing 

Round  the  heart  so  merrily — 
Where  was  now  the  waking  blossom 
Should  be  wreathing  round  the  bosom  ] 
Only  lay  a  mist  far  spreading, 
Dim  and  dimmer  twilight  shedding, 
Like  to  fever's  fitful  gleam, 
Like  to  sleeper's  troubled  dream ; 
In  the  cold  and  perished  Past 
Lay  the  mighty  strife  at  last. 
Oft  that  dim  and  visioned  treading, 

Where  the  frail  and  fair  decay, 
Comes  upon  my  bosom,  shedding 

Light  through  many  a  rising  day. 
Phantoms  now  in  beauty  ranging, 
Dreaming  ne'er  of  chill  or  changing, 
Bright  and  gay  and  flashing  all, 
How  their  voiceless  shadows  fall ! 
Go — the  weeper's  heart  is  weary  ; 
Go — the  widow's  wail  is  dreary : 
Thousand-toned  the  agony 
On  each  night-breeze  sweeping  by  : 
Go — and  for  each  little  flower 
Wreathed  about  the  blighted  bower, 
Bright,  when  suns  and  stars  have  set, 
Will  a  flow'ret  blossom  yet. 


140 


MARY   E.   BROOKS. 


A  PLEDGE  TO  THE  DYING  YEAR. 

FILL  to  the  brim  !  one  pledge  to  the  past, 

As  it  sinks  on  its  shadowy  bier  ; 
Fill  to  the  brim  !  'tis  the  saddest  and  last 

We  pour  to  the  grave  of  the  year  : 
Wake,  the  light  phantoms  of  beauty  that  won  us 

To  linger  awhile  in  those  bowers; 
And  flash  the  bright  daybeams  of  promise  upon  us, 

That  gilded  life's  earlier  hours. 

Here's  to  the  love — though  it  flitted  away, 

WTe  can  never,  no,  never  forget ! 
Through  the  gathering  darkness  of  many  a  day, 

One  pledge  will  we  pour  to  it  yet. 
Oh,  frail  as  the  vision,  that  witching  and  tender, 

And  bright  on  the  wanderer  broke, 
\\  hen  Irem's  own  beauty  in  shadowless  splendor, 

Along  the  wild  desert  awoke.* 

Fill  to  the  brim  !  one  pledge  to  the  glow 

Of  the  heart  in  its  purity  warm  ! 
Ere  sorrow  had  sullied  the  fountain  below, 

Or  darkness  enveloped  the  form  : 
Fill  to  that  life-tide  !  oh,  warm  was  its  rushing 

Through  Adens  of  arrowy  light, 
And  yet  like  the  wave  in  the  wilderness  gushing, 

'Twill  g  adden  the  wine  cup  to-night. 

Fill  to  the  past !  from  its  dim  distant  sphere 

Wild  voices  in  melody  come ; 
The  strains  of  the  bygone,  deep  echoing  here, 

We  pledge  to  their  shadowy  tomb  ; 
And  like  the  bright  orb,  that  in  sinking  flings  back 

One  gleam  o'er  the  cloud-covered  dome, 
May  the  dreams  of  the  past,  on  futurity  track 

The  hope  of  a  holier  home  ! 


"WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD." 

OH,  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 
Rather,  oh  rather  give  the  tear 
To  those  who  darkly  linger  here, 

When  all  besides  are  fled  : 
Weep  for  the  spirit  withering 
In  its  cold,  cheerless  sorrowing ; 
Weep  for  the  young  and  lovely  one 
That  ruin  darkly  revels  on, 

But  never  be  a  tear-drop  shed 

For  them,  the  pure  enfranchised  dead. 

Oh,  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 
No  more  for  them  the  blighting  chill, 
The  thousand  shades  of  earthly  ill, 

The  thousand  thorns  we  tread  ; 
Weep  for  the  life-charm  early  flown, 
The  spirit  broken,  bleeding,  lone  ; 
Weep  for  the  death  pangs  of  the  heart, 
Ere  being  from  the  bosom  part  ; 

But  never  be  a  tear-urop  given 

To  those  that  rest  in  yon  blue  heaven. 


*  Irem,  one  of  the  gardens  described  by  Mohammed— 
planted,  as  the  commentators  of  the  Koran  say  by  a  kin" 
named  Shedad,  once  seen  by  an  Arabian,  who  wandered 
Very  far  into  the  desert  in  search  of  a  lost  camel :  a  gar- 


DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

I  BEAUT)  the  music  of  the  wave, 

As  it  rippled  to  the  shore, 
And  saw  the  willow  branches  lave, 

As  light  winds  swept  them  o'er — 
The  music  of  the  golden  bow 

That  did  the  torrent  span ; 
But  I  heard  a  sweeter  music  flow 

From  the  youthful  heart  of  man. 

The  wave  rushed  on — the  hues  of  heaven 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew, 
And  deeper  melodies  were  given 

As  swift  the  changes  flew : 
Then  came  a  shadow  on  my  sigh  ; 

The  golden  bow  was  dim — 
And  he  that  laughed  beneath  its  light, 

What  was  the  change  to  him  1 

I  saw  him  not :  only  a  throng 

Like  the  swell  of  troubled  ocean, 
Rising,  sinking,  swept  along 

In  the  tempest's  wild  commotion  : 
Sleeping,  dreaming,  waking  then, 

Cnains  to  link  or  sever — 
Turning  to  the  dream  again, 

Fain  to  clasp  it  ever. 

There  was  a  rush  upon  my  brain, 

A  darkness  on  mine  eye  ; 
And  when  I  turned  to  gaze  again, 

The  mingled  forms  were  nigh  : 
In  shadowy  mass  a  mighty  hall 

Rose  on  the  fitful  scene ; 
Flowers,  music,  gems,  were  flung  o'er  all, 

Not  such  as  once  had  been. 

Then  in  its  mist,  far,  far  away, 
A  phantom  seemed  to  be ; 

The  something  of  a  bvgone  day — 
But  oh,  how  changed  was  he  ! 

He  rose  beside  the  festal  board, 
Wrhere  sat  the  merry  throng ; 

And  as  the  purple  juice  he  poured, 
Thus  woke  his  wassail  song  : 

SONG. 
COME  !  while  with  wine  the  goblets  flow, 

For  wine  they  say  has  power  to  bless ; 
And  flowers,  too — not  roses,  no  ! 

Bring  poppies,  bring  forgetfulness  ! 
A  lethc  for  departed  bliss, 

And  each  too  well  remembered  scene  : 
Earth  has  no  sweeter  draught  than  this, 

Which  drowns  the  thought  of  what  has  been  ' 
Here 's  to  the  heart's  cold  iciness, 

Which  can  not  smile,  but  will  not  sigh : 
If  wine  can  bring  a  chill  like  this, 

Come,  fill  for  me  the  goblet  high. 
Come — and  the  cold,  the  false,  the  dead, 

Shall  never  cross  our  revelry  ; 
We'll  kiss  the  wine  cup  sparkling  red, 

And  snap  the  chain  of  memory. 

den  no  less  celebrated  (says  Sir  W.  Jones)  by  the  Asiatic 
poets,  than  that  of  the  He=perides  by  the  Greeks. 


M.   ST.    LEON    LOUD. 


MARGUERITE  ST.  LEON  BARSTOW  was  born  j 
in  the  rural  town  of  Wysox,  among  the  wind 
ings  of  the  Susquehannah,  in  Bradford  coun 
ty,  Pennsylvania.  In  1824  she  was  married 
to  Mr.  Loud,  of  Philadelphia  ;  and,  except 
during  a  short  period  passed  in  the  South, 
has  since  resided  in  that  city.  Her  poems 
have  for  the  most  part  appeared  in  the  Uni 
ted  States  Gazette  and  in  the  Philadelphia 


monthly  magazines.  Mr.  Edgar  A.  Poe,  in 
his  Autography,  says  of  Mrs.  Loud,  that  she 
"has  imagination  of  no  common  order,  and, 
unlike  many  of  her  sex,  is  not 

«  Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  forever.' 
While  she  can,  upon  occasion,  compose  the 
ordinary  singsong  with  all  the  decorous  pro 
prieties  which  are  in  fashion,  she  yet  ventures 
very  frequently  into  a  more  ethereal  region." 


A  DREAM  OF   THE  LONELY  ISLE. 

THKRE  is  an  isle  in  the  far  South  sea, 
Sunny  and  bright  as  an  isle  can  be ; 
Sweet  is  the  sound  of  the  ocean  wave, 
As  its  sparkling  waters  the  green  shores  lave ; 
And  from  the  shell  that  upon  the  strand 
Lies  half  buried  in  golden  sand — 
A  thrilling  tone  through  the  still  air  rings, 
Like  music  trembling  on  fairy  strings. 
Flowers  like  those  which  the  Peris  find 
In  the  bowers  of  their  paradise,  and  bind 
In  the  flowing  tresses,  are  blooming  there, 
And  gay  birds  glance  through  the  scented  air. 
Gems  and  pearls  are  strewed  on  the  earth 
Untouched — there  are  known  to  know  their  worih ; 
And  that  fair  island  Death  comes  not  nigh  : 
Why  should  he  come  1 — there  are  none  to  die. 

My  heart  had  grown,  like  the  misanthrope's, 
Cold  and  dead  to  ail  human  hopes; 
Fame  and  fortune  alike  had  proved 
Baseless  dreams,  and  the  friends  I  loved 
Vanished  away,  like  the  flowers  that  fade 
In  the  deadly  blight  of  the  Upas'  shade. 
I  longed  upon  that  green  isle  to  be, 
Far  away  o'er  the  sounding  sea, 
Where  no  human  voice,  with  its  words  of  pain, 
Could  ever  fall  on  rny  ear  again. 
Life  seemed  a  desert  waste  to  me, 
And  I  sought  in  slumber  from  care  to  flee. 

Away,  away,  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Light  as  a  sea-bird  the  vessel  flew. 
Deep  ocean-furrows  her  timbers  plough, 
As  the  waves  are  parted  before  her  prow ; 
And  the  foaming  billows  close  o'er  her  path, 
Hissing  and  roaring,  as  if  in  wrath. 
But  swiftly  onward,  through  foam  and  spray, 
.To  the  lonely  island  she  steers  her  way  : 
The  heavens  above  wore  their  brightest  smile, 
As  the  bark  was  moored  by  that  fairy  isle ; 
The  sails  were  furled,  the  voyage  was  o'er ; 
I  should  buffet  the  waves  of  the  world  no  more  \ 
I  looked  to  the  ocean — the  bark  was  gone, 


And  I  stood  on  that  beautiful  isle  alone. 

My  wish  was  granted,  and  I  was  blest; 

My  spirit  revelled  in  perfect  rest — 

A  Dead  sea  calm — even  Thought  reposed 

Like  a  weary  dove  with  its  pinions  closed. 

Beauty  was  round  me :  bright  roses  hung 

Their  blushing  wreaths  o'er  my  head,  and  flung 

Fragance  abroad  on  the  gale — to  me 

Sweeter  than  odors  of  Araby ; 

Wealth  was  mine,  for  the  yellow  gold 

Lay  before  me  in  heaps  untold. 

Death  to  that  island  knew  not  the  way, 

But  life  was  mine'for  ever  and  aye, 

Till  Love  again  made  my  heart  its  throne, 

And  I  ceased  to  dwell  on  the  isle  alone. 

Long  did  my  footsteps  delighted  range 
My  peaceful  home,  but  there  came  a  change : 
My  heart  grew  sad,  and  I  looked  with  pain 
On  all  I  had  bartered  life's  ties  to  gain. 
A  chilling  weight  on  my  spirits  fell, 
As  the  low,  soft  wail  of  the  ocean  shell — 
Or  the  bee's  faint  hum  in  the  flowery  wood, 
Was  all  that  broke  on  mv  solitude. 
Oh  !  then  I  felt,  in  my  loneliness, 
That  earth  had  no  power  the  heart  to  bless, 
Unwarmed  by  affection's  holy  ray  ; 
And  hope  was  withered,  as  day  by  day 
I  watched  for  the  bark,  but  in  vain — in  vain ; 
She  never  sought  that  green  isle  again  ! 

I  stretched  my  arms  o'er  the  heaving  sea, 
And  prayed  aloud,  in  my  agony, 
That  Love's  pure  spirit  might  with  me  dwell. 
Then  rose  the  waves  with  a  murmuring  swell, 
Higher  and  higher,  till  naught  was  seen        , 
Where  slept  in  beauty  that  islet  green. 
The  waters  passed  o'er  me — the  spell  was  bioke; 
From  the  dream  of  the  lonely  isle  I  woke, 
With  a  heart  redeemed  from  its  selfish  stain, 
To  mingle  in  scenes  of  the  world  again 
With  cheerful  spirit — and  rather  share 
The  pains  and  sorrows  which  mortals  bear, 
Than  dwell  where  no  shade  on  my  path  is  tin  own, 
Mid  fadeless  flowers  and  bright  gems  alone. 
141 


112 


M.  ST.  LEON   LOUD. 


THE  DESERTED  HOMESTEAD. 

THERE  is  a  lonely  homestead 

In  a  green  and  quiet  vale, 
"With  its  tall  trees  sighing  mournfully 

To  every  passing  gale  ; 
There  are  many  mansions  round  it, 

In  the  sunlight  gleaming  fair  ; 
But  moss-grown  is  that  ancient  roof, 

Its  walls  are  gray  and  hare. 
Where  once  glad  voices  sounded 

Of  children  in  their  mirth, 
No  whisper  breaks  the  solitude 

By  that  deserted  hearth. 
The  swallow  from  her  dwelling 

In  the  low  eaves  hath  flown ; 
And  all  night  long,  the  whip-poor-will 

Sings  by  the  threshold  stone. 
No  hand  above  the  window 

Ties  up  the  trailing -vines; 
And  through  the  broken  casement-panes 

The  moon  at  midnight  shines. 
And  many  a  solemn  shadow 

Seems  starting  from  the  gloom; 
Like  forms  of  long-departed  ones 

Peopling  that  dim  o'd  room. 
No  furrow  for  the  harvest 

Is  drawn  upon  the  ]  lain, 
And  in  the  pastures  green  and  fair 

No  herds  or  flocks  remain. 
Why  is  that  beauteous  homestead 

Thus  standing  bare  and  lone, 
While  all  the  worshipped  household  gods 

In  dust  lie  overthrown. 
And  where  are  they  whose  voices 

Rang  out  o'er  hill  and  dale  ] 
Gone — and  their  mournful  history 

Is  but  an  oft-told  tale. 
There  smiles  no  lovelier  valley 

Beneath  the  summer  sun, 
Yet  they  who  dwelt  together  there, 

Departed  one  by  one. 
Some  to  the  quiet  churchyard, 

And  some  beyond  the  sea ; 
To  meet  no  more,  as  once  they  met, 

Beneath  that  old  roof-tree. 
Like  forest-birds  forsaking 

Their  sheltering  native  nest, 
The  young  to  life's  wild  scenes  went  forth, 

The  agrd  to  their  rest. 
Fame  and  ambition  lured  them 

From  that  green  vale  to  roam, 
But  as  their  dazzling  dreams  depart, 

Regretful  memories  come 
Of  the  valley  and  the  homestead  — 

Of  their  childhood  pure  and  free — 
Till  each  world-weary  spirit  pines 

That  spot  once  more  to  see. 
Oh  !  blest  are  they  who  linger 

Mid  old  familiar  things, 
Where  every  object  o'er  the  heart 

A  hallowed  influence  flings. 
Though  won  are  wealth  and  honors • 

Though  reached  fame's  lofty  dome — 
There  are  no  joys  like  those  which  dwell 

Within  our  childhood's  home. 


PRAYER  FOR  AN  ABSENT  HUSBAND. 

FATHER  in  heaven  ! 
Behold,  he  whom  I  love  is  daily  treading 

The  path  of  life  in  heaviness  of  soul. 
With  the  thick  darkness  now  around  him  spreading 

He  long  hath  striven — 
Oh,  thou  most  kind  !  break  not  the  golden  bowl. 

Father  in  heaven  ! 

Thou  who  so  oft  hast  healed  the  broken-hearted 
And  raised  the  weary  spirit  bowed  with  care, 
Let  him  not  say  his  joy  hath  all  departed, 

Lest  he  be  driven 
Down  to  the  deep  abyss  of  dark  despair. 

Father  in  heaven  ! 
Oh,  grant  to  his  most  cherished  hopes  a  blessing — 

Let  peace  and  rest  descend  upon  his  head, 
That  his  torn  heart,  thy  holy  love  possessing, 

May  not  be  riven — 
Let  guardian  angels  watch  his  lonely  bed. 

Father  in  heaven  ! 
Oh,  may  his  heart  be  stayed  or,  thee  !  each  feeling 

Still  lifted  up  in  gratitude  and  love ; 
And  may  that  faith  the  joys  of  heaven  revealing 

To  him  be  given, 
Till  he  shall  praise  thy  name  in  realms  above. 


REST  IN  THE  GRAVE. 

OH,  peaceful  grave  !  how  blest 
Are  they  who  in  thy  quiet  chambers  rest, 

After  the  feverish  strife — 
The  wild,  dark,  turbulent  career  of  life ! 

There  shall  the  throbbing  brain, 
The  heart  with  its  wild  hopes  and  longings  vain, 

Find  undisturbed  repose — 
No  more  to  struggle  with  its  weight  of  woes. 

No  passionate  desires 

For  some  bright  goal  to  which  the  soul  aspires — 
Foreverunattained — consume  like  quenchless firea 

Oh  !  for  a  dreamless  sleep, 

A  slumber  calm  and  deep, 
A  long  and  silent  midnight  in  the  tomb, 
Where  no  dim  visions  of  the  past  may  come ; 

No  haunting  memories — no  tears, 
Nor  voices  which  the  startled  spirit  hears, 
Whispering  mysteriously  of  ill  in  coming  years. 

Peace — peace  unbroken  dwells, 

Oh  grave !  in  thy  lone  cells. 

And  yet  not  lone,  for  they 

Who've  passed  from  earth  away, 
People  thy  realms — the  beautiful,  the  young, 
The  kindred  who  around  my  pathway  flung 
All  that  earth  had  of  brightness — and  the  tomb 

Is  robbed  of  all  its  gloom. 

There  would  I  rest,  O  Grave  ! 

Till  thy  unstormy  wave 

Hath  overswept  the  whole  of  life's  bleak  shore; 
In  thy  deep  stream  of  calm  forgetfulness 

My  soul  would  sink — no  more 
To  brave  within  a  frail,  unanchored  bark, 
Life's  tossing  billows  and  its  tempests  dark, 


EMMA    C.   EMBURY. 


(Born  1806-Died  1863). 


THIS  graceful  and  popular  authoress  — the 
Milford  of  our  country — to  whom  we  are  in 
so  large  a  degree  indebted  for  redeeming  the 
"  ladies'  magazines,"  so  called,  from  the  re 
proach  of  frivolity  and  sickly  sentiment,  is 
a  daughter  of  Dr.  James  R.  Manley,  for  many 
years  one  of  the  most  eminent  physicians  of 
New  York,  from  whom  she  inherits  all  the 
peculiar  pride  and  prejudice  that  make  up 
the  genuine  Knickerbocker.  She  was  mar 
ried,  it  appears  from  the  New  York  Mirror 
of  the  following  Saturday,  on  the  tenth  of 
May,  1828,  to  Mr.  Daniel  Embury,  now  of 
Brooklyn,  a  gentleman  of  liberal  fortune,  who 
is  well  known  for  his  taste  and  scholarly  ac 
quirements. 

Mrs.  Embury's  native  interest  in  literature 
was  manifested  by  an  early  appreciation  of 
the  works  of  genius,  and  her  poetical  talents 
were  soon  recognised  and  admired.  Under 
the  signature  of  "  lanthe,"  she  gave  to  the 
public  numerous  effusions,  which  were  dis 
tinguished  for  vigor  of  language  and  genuine 
depth  of  feeling.  A  volume  of  these  youthful 
but  most  promising  compositions  was  select 
ed  and  published,  under  the  title  of  Guido  and 
other  Poems.  Since  her  marriage,  she  has 
given  to  the  public  more  prose  than  verse, 
but  the  former  is  characterized  by  the  same 
romantic  spirit  which  is  the  essential  beauty 
of  poetry.  Many  of  her  tales  are  founded 
upon  a  just  observation  of  life,  although  not 
a  few  are  equally  remarkable  for  attractive 


invention.  In  point  of  style,  they  often  pos 
sess  the  merit  of  graceful  and  pointed  dic 
tion,  and  the  lessons  they  inculcate  are  inva 
riably  of  a  pure  moral  tendency.  Constance 
Latimer,  or  The  Blind  Girl,  is  perhaps  better 
known  than  any  other  of  her  single  produc 
tions  ;  and  this,  as  well  as  her  Pictures  of 
Early  Life,  has  passed  through  a  large  num 
ber  of  editions.  In  1845  she  published,  in  a 
beautiful  quarto  volume,  with  pictorial  illus 
trations,  Nature's  Gems,  or  American  Wild 
Flowers,  a  work  which  contains  some  of 
the  finest  specimens  of  her  writings,  in  both 
prose  and  verse.  In  1846  she  gave  to  the 
public  a  collection  of  graceful  poems,  under 
the  title  of  Love's  Token  Flowers ;  and,  in 
1848,  The  Waldorf  Family,  or  Grandfather's 
Legends,  a  little  volume  in  which  she  has 
happily  adapted  the  romantic  and  poetical 
legendary  of  Brittany  to  the  tastes  of  our  own 
country  and  the  present  age  ;  and  a  work 
entitled  Glimpses  of  Home  Life,  in  which 
many  of  the  beautiful  fictions  she  had  writ 
ten  for  the  magazines,  having  a  unity  and 
completeness  of  design,  are  reproduced,  to 
run  anew  the  career  of  popularity  through 
which  they  passed  on  their  first  and  separate 
publication.  The  tales  and  sketches  by  Mrs. 
Embury  are  very  numerous,  probably  not  less 
than  one  hundred  and  fifty ;  and  several  such 
delightful  series,  evincing  throughout  the 
same  true  cultivation  and  refinement  of  taste 
and  feeling,  might  be  made  from  them. 


TWO  PORTRAITS  FROM  LIFE. 

i. 
On,  what  a  timid  watch  young  Love  was  keeping 

When  thou  wert  fashioned  in  such  gentle  guise  ! 

How  was  thy  nature  nursed  with  secret  sighs  ! 
What  bitter  tears  thy  mother's  heart  were  steeping ! 

Within  the  crystal  depths  of  thy  blue  eyes 
A  world  of  troubled  tenderness  lies  sleeping, 

And  on  thy  full  and  glowing  lip  there  lies 
A  shadow  that  portends  thee  future  weeping. 
Tender  and  self-distrustful — doubting  still 

Thyself,  but  trusting  all  the  world  beside, 
Tremblingly  sensitive  to  coming  ill, 

Blending  with  woman's  softness  manhood's  pride, 
How  wilt  thou  all  life's  future  conflicts  bear, 
And  fearless  suffer  all  that  man  must  do  and  dare  1 


Pnoun,self-sustained  and  fearless!  dreading  naught 
Save  falsehood — loving  everything  but  sin — 
How  glorious  is  the  light  that  from  within 

Illumes  thy  boyish  face  with  lofty  thought ! 

A  child  thou  art — but  thy  deep  eyes  are  fraught 
With  that  mysterious  light  by  genius  shed, 

And  in  thine  aspect  is  a  glory  caught 
From  the  high  dreams  that  cluster  round  thy  head. 

I  know  not  what  thy  future  lot  may  be, 
But,  when  men  gather  to  a  new  crusade 

Against  earth  e  falsehood,  wrong,  and  tyranny,  ^ 
Thou  wilt  be  there  with  all  thy  strength  dif« 
played — 

Thy  voice  clear-ringing  mid  the  conflict's  roar, 

And  on  thy  banner,  writ  in  stars,  "  Excelsior !" 
143 


141 


EMMA    C.  EMBURY. 


THE  DUKE  OF  RE1CHSTADT. 

HKITI  of  that  name 

W  hich  shook  with  sudden  terror  the  far  earth — 
Child  of  strange  destinies  e'en  from  thy  birth, 

When  kings  and  princes  round  thy  cradle  came, 
And  »avr  tiu-ir  crowns,  as  playthings,  to  thy  hand — 
Thine  heritage  the  spoils  of  many  a  land  ! 

How  were  the  schemes 
Of  human  foresight  haftled  in  thy  fate, 
Thou  victim  of  a  parent's  lofty  state  ! 

What  glorious  visions  filled  thy  father's  dreams, 
When  first  he  gazed  upon  thy  infant  face, 
And  deemed  himself  the  Rodolph  of  his  race  ! 

Scarce  had  thine  eyes 

Beheld  the  light  of  day,  when  thou  wert  bound 
With  power's  vain  symbols,  and  thy  young  brow 

crowned 

With  Rome's  imperial  diadem — the  prize 
From  priestly  princes  by  thy  proud  sire  won, 
To  deck  the  pillow  of  his  cradled  son. 

Yet  where  is  now 

The  sword  that  flashed  as  with  a  meteor  light, 
And  led  on  half  the  world  to  stirring  fight, 

Bidding  whole  seas  of  blood  and  carnage  flow  ] 
Alas  !   when  foiled  on  his  last  battle-plain, 
Its  shattered  fragments  forged  thy  father's  chain. 

Far  worse  thy  fate 

Than  that  which  doomed  him  to  the  barren  rock ; 
Through  half  the  universe  was  felt  the  shock, 
When  down  he  toppled  from  his  high  estate ; 
And  the  proud  thought  of  still  acknowledged  power 
Could  cheer  him  e'en  in  that  disastrous  hour. 

But  thou,  poor  boy  ! 

Hadst  no  such  dreams  to  cheat  the  lagging  hours; 
Thy  chains  still  galled,  though  wreathed  with  fairest 
Thou  hadst  no  images  of  bygone  joy,     [flowers; 
No  visions  of  anticipated  fame, 
To  bear  thee  through  a  life  of  sloth  and  shame. 

And  where  was  she, 

W7hose  proudest  title  was  Napoleon's  wife  ? 
She  who  first  gave,  and  should  have  watched  thy 
Treb  ing  a  mother's  tenderness  for  thee,        [life, 
Despoiled  heir  of  empire  ]      On  her  breast 
Did  thy  young  heart  repose  in  its  unrest  \ 

No  !  round  her  heart 

Children  of  humbler,  happier  lineage  twined  : 
Thou  couldst  but  bring  dark  memories  to  mind 
Of  pageants  where  she  bore  a  heartless  part ; 
She  who  shared  not  her  monarch-husband's  doom 
Cared  little  for  her  first-born's  living  tomb. 

Thou  art  at  rest : 

Child  of  Ambition's  martyr  !  life  had  been 
To  thee  no  blessing,  but  a  dreary  scene 

Of  doubt,  and  dread,  and  suffering  at  the  best ; 
For  thou  wert  one  whose  path,  in  these  dark  times, 
Would  lead  to  sorrows — it  may  be  to  crimes  ! 

Thou  art  at  rest : 

The  idle  sword  hath  worn  its  sheath  away ; 
The  spirit  has  consumed  its  bonds  of  clay; 

And  they,  who  with  vain  tyranny  comprest 
Thy  soul's  high  yearnings,  now  forget  their  fear, 
And  fling  ambition's  purple  o'er  thy  bier ! 


SYMPATHY. 

LIKE  the  sweet  melody  which  faintly  lingers 
Upon  the  windharp's  strings  at  close  of  day, 

When  gently  touched  by  evening's  dewy  fingers 
It  breathes  a  low  and  melancholy  lay  : 

So  the  calm  voice  of  sympathy  meseemeth ; 

And  while  its  magic  spell  is  round  me  cast, 
My  spirit  in  its  cloistered  silence  dreameth, 

And  vaguely  blends  the  future  with  the  past. 

But  vain  such  dreams  while  pain  my  bosom  thrilleth. 
And  mournful  memories  around  me  move ; 

E'en  friendship's  alchemy  no  balm  distilleth, 
To  soothe  th'  immedicable  wound  of  love. 

Alas,  alas  !  passion  too  soon  exhaieth 
The  dewy  freshness  of  the  heart's  young  flowers; 

We  water  them  with  tears,  but  naught  availeth — 
They  wither  on  through  all  life's  later  hours. 


AUTUMN  EVENING. 

"  And  Isaac  went  out  hi  the  field  to  meditate  at  eventide." 

Go  forth  at  morning's  birth, 
When  the  glad  sun,  exulting  in  his  might. 
Comes  from  the  dusky-curtained  tents  of  night, 

Shedding  his  gifts  of  beauty  o'er  the  earth ; 
When  sounds  of  busy  life  are  on  the  air, 
And  man  awakes  to  labor  and  to  care, 
Then  hie  thee  forth :  go  out  amid  thy  kind, 
Thy  daily  tasks  to  do,  thy  harvest-sheaves  to  bind. 

Go  forth  at  noontide  hour, 
Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 
Pursue  the  labors  of  thine  onward  way, 

Nor  murmur  if  thou  miss  life's  morning  flower; 
Where'er  the  footsteps  of  mankind  are  found 
Thou  may'st  discern  some  spot  of  hallowed  ground, 
Where  duty  blossoms  even  as  the  rose,    [enclose. 
Though  sharp  and  stinging  thorns  the  beauteousbud 

Go  forth  at  eventide, 

When  sounds  of  toil  no  more  the  soft  air  fill, 
When  e'en  the  hum  of  insect  life  is  still, 

And  the  bird's  song  on  evening's  breeze  has  died ; 
Go  forth,  as  did  the  patriarch  of  old,  [told, 

And  commune  with  thy  heart's  deep  thoughts  un- 
Fathom  thy  spirit's  hidden  depths,  and  learn 
The  mysteries  of  life,  the  fires  that  inly  burn. 

Go  forth  at  eventide, 
The  eventide  of  summer,  when  the  trees 
Yield  their  frail  honors  to  the  passing  breeze, 

And  woodland  paths  with  autumn  tints  are  dyed ; 
When  the  mild  sun  his  paling  lustre  shrouds 
In  gorgeous  draperies  of  golden  clouds, 
Then  wander  forth,  mid  beauty  and  decay, 
To  meditate  alone — alone  to  watch  and  pray. 

Go  forth  at  eventide, 

Commune  with  thine  own  bosom,  and  be  still — 
Check  the  wild  impulses  of  wayward  will, 

And  learn  the  nothingness  of  human  pride: 
Morn  is  the  time  to  act,  noon  to  endure ; 
But,  oh,  if  thou  wouldst  keep  thy  spirit  pure, 
Turn  from  the  beaten  path  by  worldlings  trod, 
Go  forth  at  eventide,  ii:  heart  to  walk  with  God 


EMMA    C.   EMBURY. 


145 


PEACE. 


0  i.  sock  l-er  not  in  marl)  o  balls  of  pride, 
Where  pushing  fountains  fliiu  their  silver  tide, 

Their  wea  th  of  freshness  toward  the  summer  sky  ; 
The  ec'ioos  of  a  palace  are  too  loud — 
They  hut  give  hack  the  footsteps  of  the  crowd 

That  throng  ahout  some  idol  throned  on  high, 
Whose  er mined  robe  and  pomp  of  rich  array 
But  serve  tu  hide  the  fa'se  one's  feet  of  clay. 
Nor  seek  her  form  in  poverty's  low  va'e,       [pale, 
Where,  touched  by  want,  the  bright  cheek  waxes 

And  the  heart  faints,  with  sordid  cares  opprest, 
Where  pining  discontent  has  left  its  trace 
Deep  and  abiding  in  each  haggard  face. 

Not  there,  not  there  Peace  builds  her  halcyon  nest  : 
Wild  revel  scares  her  from  wealth's  towering  dome, 
And  misery  frights  her  from  the  poor  man's  home. 

Nor  dwells  she  in  the  cloister,  where  the  sage 
Ponders  the  mystery  of  some  time-stained  page, 

Delving,  with  feeble  hand,  the  classic  mine ; 
Oh,  who  can  teli  the  restless  hope  of  fame, 
The  bitter  yearnings  for  a  deathless  name, 

That  round  the  student's  heart  like  serpents  twine! 
Ambition's  fever  burns  within  his  breast, 
Can  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  abide  with  such  a  guest  ? 

Search  not  within  the  city's  crowded  mart, 
Where  the  low-whispered  music  of  the  heart 

Is  all  unheard  amid  the  clang  of  go'd ; 
Oh,  never  yet  did  Peace  her  chaplet  twine 
To  lay  upon  base  mammon's  sordid  shrine,  [sold  ; 

Where  earth's  most  precious  things  are  bought  and 
Thrown  on  that  pile,  the  pearl  of  price  would  be 
Despised,  because  unfit  for  merchantry. 

Go !  hie  thee  to  God's  altar—  kneeling  there, 
List  to  the  ming'ed  voice  of  fervent  prayer 

That  swells  around  thee  in  the  sacred  fane ; 
Or  catch  the  solemn  organ's  pealing  note, 
When  grateful  praises  on  the  still  air  float, 

And  the  freed  soul  forgets  earth's  heavy  chain  : 
There  learn  that  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  is  ever  found 
In  her  eternal  home,  on  holy  ground. 


THE  EOLIAN  HARP. 

HARP  of  the  winds  !  how  vainly  art  thou  swelling 
Thv  diapason  on  the  heedless  blast ; 

How  idly,  too,  thy  gentler  chords  are  telling 
A  tale  of  sorrow  as  the  breeze  sweeps  past : 

Why  dost  thou  waste  in  loneliness  the  strain 

Which  were  not  heard  by  human  ears  in  vain  ? 

And  the  Harp  answered,Though  the  winds  are  bear- 
My  soul  of  sweetness  on  their  viewless  wings,  [ing 

Yet  one  faint  tone  may  reach  some  sou!  despairing, 
And  rouse  its  energies  to  happier  things  : 

Oh,  not  in  vain  my  song,  if  it  but  gives 

One  moment's  joy  to  anything  that  lives. 

Oh  heart  of  mine  !  canst  thou  not,  here  discerning 
An  emblem  of  thyself,  some  solace  find  ]  [irrg. 

Thou  ah  earth  may  never  quench  thy  life-long  yearn- 
Yet  give  thyself  like  music  to  the  wind  : 

Thy  wandering  thought  may  teach  thy  love  and 
And  waken  sympathy  when  thou  art  dust,  [trust. 
JO 


UNREST. 

HKATIT,  weary  Heart!  what  means  thy  wild  Unrest  1 

Hast  thou  not  tasted  of  earth's  every  p'easurel 
With  all  that  morta's  seek  thy  lot  is  blest ; 

Yet  dost  thou  ever  chant  in  mournful  measure — 

"  Something  beyond  !" 
Heart,  weary  Heart !  canst  thou  not  find  repose 

In  the  sweet  calm  of  friendship's  pure  devotion  ? 
Amid  the  peace  whic.h  sympathy  bestows, 

Still  dost  thou  murmur  with  repressed  emotion, 

"  Something  beyond  !" 
Heart,  weary  Heart !  too  idly  hast  thou  poured 

Thy  music  and  thy  perfume  on  the  blast ; 
Now,  beggared  in  affection's  treasured  hoard, 

Thy  cry  is  still — thy  saddest  and  thy  last — 

"  Something  beyond  !" 
Heart,  weary  Heart !  oh,  cease  thy  wild  unrest — 

Earth  can  not  satisfy  thy  bitter  yearning  : 
Then  onward,  upward  speed  thy  lonely  quest, 

And  hope  to  find,  where  Heaven's  pure  stars  are 
burning,  "  Something  beyond  !" 


THE   OLD  MAN'S  LAMENT. 

0;i,  for  one  draught  of  those  sweet  waters  now 

That  shed  such  freshness  o'er  my  early  life  ! 
Oh  that  I  could  but  bathe  my  fevered  brow 

To  wash  away  the  dust  of  worldly  strife, 
And  be  a  simple-hearted  child  once  more, 
As  if  I  ne'er  had  known  this  world's  pernicious  lore ! 
My  heart  is  weary,  and  my  spirit  pants 

Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  ; 
Would  that  I  could  regain  those  shady  haunts 

Where  once,  with  Hope,  I  dreamed  the  hours 
Giving  my  thoughts  to  tales  of  old  romance,  [away, 
And  yielding  up  my  soul  to  youth's  delicious  trance ! 
Vain  are  such  wishes  :  I  no  more  may  tread 

With  lingering  step  and  slow  the  green  hili-side , 
Before  me  now  life's  shortening  path  is  spread, 

And  I  must  onward,  whatsoe'er  betide  : 
The  pleasant  nooks  of  youth  are  passed  for  aye, 
And  sober  scenes  now  meet  the  traveller  on  his  way. 
Alas  !  the  dust  which  clogs  my  weary  feet 

Glitters  with  fragments  of  each  ruined  shrine, 
Where  once  my  spirit  worshipped,  when, with  sweet 

And  passionless  devotion,  it  could  twine 
Its  strong  affections  round  earth's  earthliest  things, 
Yet  bear  away  no  stain  upon  its  snowy  wings. 

What  though  some  flowers  have  'scaped  the  tem 
pest's  wrath  ] 

Daily  they  droop  by  nature's  swift  decay  : 
What  though  the  setting  sun. still  lights  my  path! 

Morn's  dewy  freshness  long  has  passed  away. 
Oh,  give  me  back  life's  newly-budded  flowers-  - 
Let  me  once  more  inhale  the  breath  of  morning's 
hours  ! 

My  youth,  my  youth !  oh,  give  me  back  my  youth  ! 

Not  the  unfurrowed  brow  and  blooming  cheek, 
But  childhood's  sunny  thoughts,  its  perfect  truth, 

And  youth's  unworldly  feelings — these  I  seek 
Ah,  who  could  e'er  be  sinless  and  yet  sage  1   [page  . 
Would  that  I  might  forget  Time's  dark  and  blotted 


146 


EMMA    C.  EMBURY. 


THE  AMERICAN  RIVER. 

A   KKMK.MHKANCK. 

IT  rusheth  on  with  fearful  might, 

That  river  of  the  west, 
Through  forests  dense,  where  seldom  light 

Of  sunbeam  gilds  its  breast: 
Anon  it  dashes  wildly  past 
The  widespread  prairie  ,one  and  vast, 
Without  a  shadow  on  its  tide, 
Save  the  long  grass  that  skirts  its  side ; 
Again  its  angry  currents  sweep 
Beneath  some  tall  and  rocky  steep, 
Which  frowns  above  the  darkened  stream, 
Till  doubly  deep  its  waters  seem. 
No  rugged  cliff  may  check  its  way, 
No  gent.e  mead  invite  its  stay — 
Still  with  resistless,  maddened  force, 
Following  its  wild  and  devious  course, 

The  river  rusheth  on. 
It  rusheth  on — the  rocks  are  stirred, 

And  echoing  far  and  wide, 
Through  the  dim  forest  aisles,  is  heard 

The  thunder  of  its  tide ; 
No  other  sound  strikes  on  the  ear, 
Save  when,  beside  its  waters  clear, 
Crashing  o'er  branches  dry  and  sear, 
Comes  bounding  forth  the  antlered  deer ; 
Or  when,  perchance,  the  woods  give  back 
The  arrow  whizzing  on  its  track, 
Or  deadlier  rifle's  vengeful  crack: 
No  hum  of  busy  life  is  near, 
And  still  uncurbed  in  its  career 

The  river  rusheth  on. 
It  rusheth  on — no  firebark  leaves 

Its  dark  and  smoking  trail 
O'er  the  pure  wave,  which  only  heaves 

The  bateau  light  and  frail ; 
Long,  long  ago  the  rude  canoe 
Across  its  sparkling  waters  flew  ; 
Long,  long  ago  the  Indian  brave 
In  the  clear  stream  his  brow  might  lave : 
But  seldom  has  the  white  man  stood 
Within  that  trackless  solitude, 
Where  onward,  onward  dashing  still, 
With  all  the  force  of  untamed  will, 

The  river  rusheth  on. 
It  rusheth  on — no  changes  mark 

How  many  years  have  sped 
Since  to  its  banks,  through  forests  dark, 

Some  chance  the  hunter  led  ; 
Though  many  a  season  has  passed  o'er 
The  giant  tree*  that  gird  its  shore — 
Though  the  soft  limestone  mass,  imprest 
By  naked  footstep  on  its  breast, 
Now  hardened  into  rock  appears, 
B\   work  of  indurating  years, 
Yet  'tis  by  grander  strength  alone 
That  Nature's  age  is  ever  known. 
While  crumbling  turrets  tell  the  tale 
Hf  man's  vain  pomp  and  projects  frail, 
Time,  in  the  wilderness  displays 
Th'  ennobling  power  of  length  of  days, 
And  in  the  forest's  pathless  bound, 
Type  of  Etenrty,  is  found — 

The  river  rushing  on. 


THE  ENGLISH  RIVER. 

A  FANTASY. 

IT  floweth  on  with  pleasant  sound — 

A  vague  and  dreamlike  measure, 
And  singeth  to  the  flowers  around 

A  song  of  quiet  pleasure ; 
No  rugged  cliff  obstructs  the  way 
Where  the  glad  waters  leap  and  play, 
Or,  if  a  tiny  rock  look  down 
In  the  calm  stream  with  mimic  frown, 
The  waves  a  sweeter  music  make, 
As  at  its  base  they  flash  and  break  : 
It  speedeth  on,  like  joy's  bright  hours, 
Traced  but  by  verdure  and  by  flowers ; 
And  whether  sunbeams  on  it  rest, 
Or  storm-clouds  hover  o'er  its  breast, 
Still  in  that  green  and  shady  glen, 
Beside  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 

The  river  singeth  on. 
It  floweth  on,  past  tree  and  flower, 

Until  the  stream  is  laving 
The  ruins  of  some  ancient  tower, 

With  ivy  banners  waving  : 
Methinks  the  river's  pleasant  chime 
Now  tells  a  tale  of  olden  time, 
W7hen  mail-clad  knights  were  often  seen 
Upon  its  banks  of  living  green, 
And  gentle  dames  of  lineage  high 
Lingered  to  hear  Love's  thrilling  sigh; 
Haply  some  squire,  whose  humble  name 
Was  yet  unheralded  by  fame, 
Here  wove  ambition's  earliest  dreams  : 
While  then,  as  now,  'neath  sunset  gleams, 
The  river  singeth  on. 
It  floweth  on — that  gentle  stream — 

And  seems  to  tell  the  story 
Of  old-world  heroes,  and  their  dream 

Of  fame  and  martial  glory  ; 
The  war-cry  on  its  banks  has  pealed, 
Blent  with  the  clang  of  lance  and  shield 
Waked  to  new  life  by  war's  alarms, 
Bold  knights,  and  squires,  and  men-at-arms, 
Have  sallied  forth  in  proud  array, 
Wit'.i  hearts  impatient  for  the  fray : 
Though  nature's  voice  is  little  heard, 
When  pulses  are  thus  madly  stirred, 
Yet,  while  in  brightness  it  gives  back 
The  glittering  sheen  that  marks  their  uack. 

The  river  singeth  on. 
Yet,  as  above  the  sunniest  fate 

Hangs  the  dark  cloud  of  sorrow, 
So  sadder  scenes  the  fancy  wait, 

Since  dreams  from  truth  we  borrow : 
A  well-worn  path,  now  grass-o'ergrown 
And  hid  by  many  a  fallen  stone, 
To  yonder  roofless  chapel  led 
Where  sleep  the  castle's  honored  dead ; 
Full  often  that  pure  stream  has  glassed 
The  funeral  train,  as  slow  it  passed ; 
Hark  !  as  the  barefoot  monks  repeat 
The  "  Requiescat,"  wild  and  sweet, 

The  river  singeth  ou. 
The  vision  fades,  the  phantoms  flee. 

And  naught  of  all  remaineth ; 
The  river  runneth  fast  and  free, 


EMMA    C.  EMBURY. 


147 


The  wind  through  ruins  plaineth : 
The  feudal  lord  and  belted  knight, 
And  spurless  squire  and  lady  bright, 
Long  since  have  shared  the  common  lot — 
All,  save  their  haughty  name,  forgot. 
The  ivy  wreathes  the  ruined  shrine, 
Flaunting  beneath  the  glad  sunshine; 
The  fallen  fortress,  ruined  wall, 
And  crumbling  battlement,  are  all 
That  still  are  left  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  those  who  ruled  that  fairy  vale : 
But  Nature  still  upholds  her  sway, 
And  flowers  and  music  mark  the  way 

The  river  singeth  on. 


BALLAD. 

THE  maiden  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

Her  heart  was  light  and  free, 
And  ever  in  cheerful  song  broke  forth 

Her  bosom's  harmless  glee  : 
Her  song  was  in  mockery  of  Love, 

And  oft  I  heard  her  say, 
"  The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

I  looked  on  the  maiden's  rosy  cheek, 

And  her  lip  so  full  and  bright, 
And  I  sighed  to  think  that  the  traitor  Love 

Should  conquer  a  heart  so  light: 
But  she  thought  not  of  future  days  of  wo, 

While  she  carolled  in  tones  so  gay — 
"  The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

A  year  passed  on,  and  again  I  stood 

By  the  humble  cottage  door ; 
The  maid  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

But  her  look  was  blithe  no  more  ; 
The  big  tear  stood  in  her  downcast  eye, 

And  with  sighs  I  heard  her  say, 
"  The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

Oh,  well  I  knew  what  had  dimmed  her  eye, 

And  made  her  cheek  so  pale : 
The  maid  had  forgotten  her  early  song, 

While  she  listened  to  Love's  soft  tale ; 
She  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  his  poisoned  cup, 

It  had  wasted  her  life  away — 
And  the  stolen  heart,  like  the  gathered  rose, 

Had  charmed  but  for  a  day. 


CHEERFULNESS. 

A  GEXTLE  heritage  is  mine, 

A  life  of  quiet  p'easure : 
My  heaviest  cares  are  but  to  twine 
Fresh  votive  garlands  for  the  shrine 

Where  'bides  my  bosom's  treasure ; 
I  am  not  merry,  nor  yet  sad, 
My  thoughts  are  more  serene  than  glad. 

I  have  outlived  youth's  feverish  mirth, 

And  all  its  causeless  sorrow  : 
My  joys  are  now  of  nobler  birth, 


My  sorrows  too  have  holier  birth 

And  heavenly  solace  Dorrow  ; 
So,  from  my  green  and  shady  nook, 
Back  on  my  by-past  life  I  look. 

The  past  has  memories  sad  and  sweet, 

Memories  still  fondly  cherished, 
Of  love  that  blossomed  at  my  feet, 
Whose  odors  still  my  senses  greet, 

E'en  though  the  flowers  have  perished : 
Visions  of  pleasures  passed  away 
That  charmed  me  in  life's  earlier  day. 

The  future,  Isis-like,  sits  veiled, 

And  none  her  mystery  learneth ; 
Yet  why  should  the  bright  cheek  be  paled, 
For  sorrows  that  may  be  bewailed 
W'hen  time  our  hopes  inure th  ] 
Come  when  it  will  grief  comes  too  soon— 
Why  dread  the  night  at  highest  noon  ] 

I  wou'd  not  pierce  the  mist  that  hides 
Life's  coming  joy  or  sorrow ; 

If  sweet  content  with  me  abides 

While  onward  still  the  present  glides, 
I  think  not  of  the  morrow ; 

It  may  bring  griefs — enough  for  me 

The  quiet  joy  I  feel  and  see. 


THE  WIDOW'S  WOOER. 

HE  woos  me  with  those  honeyed  words 

That  women  love  to  hear, 
Those  gentle  flatteries  that  fall 

So  sweet  on  every  ear  : 
He  tells  me  that  my  face  is  fair, 

Too  fair  for  grief  to  shade ; 
My  cheek,  he  says,  was  never  meant 

In  sorrow's  gloom  to  fade. 

He  stands  beside  me  when  I  sing 

The  songs  of  other  days, 
And  whispers,  in  love's  thrilling  tonta, 

The  words  of  heartfelt  praise ; 
And  often  in  my  eyes  he  looks, 

Some  answering  love  to  see ; 
In  vain — he  there  can  only  read 

The  faith  of  memory. 

He  little  knows  what  thoughts  awake 

With  every  gentle  word  ; 
How,  by  his  looks  and  tones,  the  foun's 

Of  tenderness  are  stirred  : 
The  visions  of  my  youth  return. 

Joys  far  too  bright  to  last, 
And  while  he  speaks  of  future  bliss, 

I  think  but  of  the  past. 

Like  lamps  in  eastern  sepulchres. 

Amid  my  heart's  deep  gloom. 
Affection  sheds  its  holiest  light 

Upon  my  husband's  tomb . 
And  is  those  lamps,  if  brought  once  moi« 

To  upper  air  grow  dim, 
So  my  soul's  love  is  cold  and  dead. 

Unless  it  glow  for  him. 


148 


EMMA    C.   EMBURY. 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

THKTIE  was  no  beauty  on  thy  brow, 

No  softness  in  thine  eye  ; 
Thy  cheek  wore  not  the  rose's  glow, 

Thy  lip  the  ruby's  dye ; 
The  charms  that  make  a  woman's  pride 

Had  never  been  thine  own — 
For  Heaven  to  thee  those  gifts  denied 

In  which  eatth's  bright  ones  shone. 

But  brighter,  holier  spells  were  thine, 

For  mental  wealth  was  given, 
Till  thou  wert  as  a  sacred  shrine 

Where  men  might  worship  Heaven. 
Yes,  woman  as  thou  wert,  thy  word 

Could  make  the  tyrant  start, 
And  thy  tongue's  witchery  has  stirred 

Ambition's  iron  heart. 

The  charm  of  eloquence — the  skill 

To  wake  each  secret  string, 
And  from  the  bosom's  chords,  at  will, 

Life's  mournful  music  bring  ; 
The  o'ermastering  strength  of  mind,  which  sways 

The  haughty  and  the  free, 
Whose  might  earth's  mightiest  one  obeys — 

These — these  were  given  to  thee. 

Thou  hadst  a  prophet's  eye  to  pierce 

The  depths  of  man's  dark  soul, 
For  thou  couldst  tell  of  passions  fierce 

O'er  which  its  wild  waves  roll ; 
And  all  too  deeply  hadst  thou  learned 

The  lore  of  woman's  heart — 
The  thoughts  in  thine  own  breast  that  burned 

Taught  thee  that  mournful  part. 

Thine  never  was  a  woman's  dower 

Of  tenderness  and  love, 
Thou,  who  couldst  chain  the  eagle's  power, 

Cou'd  never  tame  the  dove  ; 
Oh,  Love  is  not  for  such  as  thee : 

The  gentle  and  the  mild, 
The  beautiful  thus  blest  may  be, 

But  never  Fame's  proud  child 

When  mid  the  hal!s  of  state,  alone, 

In  queenly  pride  of  place, 
The  majesty  of  mind  thy  throne, 

Thy  sceptre  mental  grace — 
Then  was  thy  glory  felt,  and  thou 

Didst  triumph  in  that  hour 
When  men  could  turn  from  beauty's  brow 

In  tribute  to  thy  power. 

And  yet  a  woman's  heart  was  thine — 

No  dream  of  fame  could  fill 
The  bosom  which  must  vainly  pine 

For  sweet  affection  still ; 
And  oh.  what  pangs  thv  spirit  wrung, 

E'en  in  thy  hour  of  pride, 
\Vhen  all  could  list  Love's  wooing  tongue 

Save  thee,  bright  Glory's  bride. 

Curinna  !  thine  own  hand  has  traced 

Thy  melancholy  fate, 

Though  by  earth's  noblest  triumphs  graced, 
waits  not  on  the  grea  : 


Only  in  lowly  places  sleep 

Life's  flowers  of  sweet  perfume, 

And  they  who  climb  Fame's  mountain-steep 
Must  mourn  their  own  high  doom. 


HEART  QUESTIONINGS. 

WHEN  Life's  false  oracles,  no  more  replying 

To  baffled  hope,  shall  mock  my  weary  quest, 
When  in  the  grave's  cold  shadow  calmly  lying, 
This  heart  at  last  has  found  its  earthly  rest, 

How  will  ye  think  of  me  ] 
Oh,  gentle  friends,  how  wiil  ye  think  of  me  1 
Perhaps  the  wayside  flowers  around  ye  springing 
WastingjUrrmarked.  their  fragrance  and  their  bloom, 
Or  some  fresh  fountain,  through  the  forest  singing, 
Unheard,  unheeded,  may  recall  mv  doom  : 

Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  1 
May  not  the  daybeam  glancing  o'er  the  ocean, 

Picture  my  restless  heart,  which,  like  yon  wave, 
Reflected  doubly,  in  its  wild  commotion, 
Each  ray  of  light  that  pleasure's  sunshine  gave  1 

Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  1 

Wiil  ye  bring  back,  by  Memory's  art,  the  gladness 
That  sent  my  fancies  forth,  like  summer  birds  ] 
Or  will  ye  list  that  undertone  of  sadness, 
Whose  music  seldom  shaped  itself  in  words  ] 

Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  1 
Remember  not  how  dreams,  around  me  thronging, 

Enticed  me  ever  from  life's  lowly  way, 
But  oh  !  still  hearken  to  the  deep  soul  longing, 
Whose  mournful  tones  pervade  the  poet's  lay  : 

Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  1 
And  then,  forgetting  every  wayward  feeling, 

Bethink  ye  only  that  I  loved  ye  well, 
Till  o'er  your  souls  that  "  late  remorse"  is  stealing, 
Whose  voiceless  anguish  only  tears  can  tell. 

Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  1 
Oh,  gentle  friends  !  will  ye  thus  think  of  me  7 


NEVP:R  FORGET. 

NETKR  forget  the  hour  of  our  first  meeting, 
When,  mid  the  sounds  of  revelry  and  song, 
Only  thy  soul  could  know  that  mine  was  greeting 
Its  idol,  wished  for,  waited  for,  so  long. 

Never  forget. 
Never  forget  the  joy  of  that  revealment, 

Centring  an  age  of  bliss  in  one  sweet  hour, 
When  Love  broke  forth  from  friendship's  frail  con 
cealment, 
And  stood  confest  to  us  in  godlike  power  : 

Never  forget. 
Never  forget  my  heart's  intense  devotion, 

Its  wealth  of  freshness  at  thy  feet  flung  free — 

Its  golden  hopes,  whelmed  in  that  boundless  ocean, 

Which  merged  all  wishes,  all  desires,  save  thee: 

Never  forget. 
Never  forget  the  moment  when  we  parted — 

When  from  life's  summer-cloud  thebolt  was  hurled 
That  drove  us,  scathed  in  soul  and  broken  hearted, 
Alone  to  wander  through  this  desert  world 

Never  forget. 


ELIZABETH    M.    CHANDLER. 


(Bom  1807— Died  1834). 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER  was  born  j 
near  Wilmington,  in  Delaware,  on  the  twen-  | 
ty-fourth  of  December,  1807.  Her  father,  an  j 
exemplary  member  of  the  society  of  Friends,  | 
after  leaving  college  had  become  a  physician, 
but  at  this  period  he  was  a  farmer,  in  easy 
circumstances,  and  he  continued  his  agricul 
tural  pursuits  until  the  death  of  his  wife, 
when  he  removed  to  Philadelphia  and  re 
sumed  the  practice  of  his  profession.  He 
died  in  1816,  leaving  two  sons  and  a  daugh 
ter  to  the  caie  of  their  maternal  grandmo 
ther,  in  Burlington,  New  Jersey.  Elizabeth, 
the  youngest  of  his  children,  was  placed  at 
one  of  the  schools  of  the  society,  in  Philadel 
phia,  where  she  remained  until  about  thir 
teen  years  of  age.  She  was  remarkable,  when 
very  young,  for  a  love  of  books,  and  for  a 
habit  of  writing  verses,  and  in  iier  seven 
teenth  year  she  began  to  send- pieces  to  the 
journals.  For  a  poem  entitled  The  Slave- 
Ship,  written  at  eighteen,  she  received  a 
prize  offered  by  the  publishers  of  The  Cas 
ket,  a  monthly  magazine,  and  this  led  to  her 
acquain tance  with  Mr.  Benjamin  Lundy,  then 


editor  of  The  Genius  of  Universa^  Emanci 
pation,  to  which  paper  she  became  from  that 
time  a  frequent  contributor.  She  continued 
in  Philadelphia  until  the  summer  of  1830, 
when,  her  health  having  failed,  she  accom 
panied  her  brother  to  a  rural  town  in  Lena- 
wee  county,  Michigan,  where,  at  a  place 
which  she  named  Hazlebank,  she  remained, 
in  intimate  correspondence  with  a  few  friends, 
and  ia  the  occasional  indulgence  of  her  taste 
for  literary  composition,  until  her  death,  on 
the  second  of  November,  1834. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Miss  Chandler, 
with  a  Memoir  of  her  Life  an<J  Character, 
and  a  collection  of  her  Essays,  Philanthropic 
and  Moral,  principally  relating  to  the  Aboli 
tion  of  Slavery,  were  published  in  Philadel 
phia  in  1836.  These  volumes  are  altogether 
creditable  to  her  principles  and  her  abilities. 
Her  style  and  feelings  were  influenced  by  her 
religious  and  social  relations,  and  her  wri 
tings  exhibit  but  little  scope  or  variety  ;  but 
the  pieces  that  are  here  quoted,  show  how 
well  she  might  have  succeeded,  with  a  wider 
experience  and  inspiration. 


THE  DEVOTED. 

STERN  faces  were  around  her  bent, 

And  eyes  of  vengeful  ire, 
And  fearful  were  the  words  they  spake, 

Of  torture,  stake,  and  fire : 
Yvi  calmly  in  the  midst  she  stood, 

With  eye  undimmed  and  clear, 
And  though  her  lip  and  cheek  were  white, 

She  wore  no  signs  of  fear. 

"  Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  1"  they  said  ; — 

A  half-formed  smile  of  scorn, 
That  curled  upon  her  haughty  lip, 

Was  back  for  answer  borne ; — 
"Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  V  again, 

In  fiercer  tones,  they  said, 
And  sternly  pointed  to  the  rack, 

All  rusted  o'er  with  red  ! 

Her  heart  and  pulse  beat  firm  and  free — 

But  in  a  crimson  flood, 
O'er  pallid  lip,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 

Rushed  up  the  burning  blood  ; 
She  spake,  but  proudly  rose  her  tones, 

As  when  in  hall  or  bower, 
The  haughtiest  chief  that  round  her  stood 

Had  meekly  owned  their  power. 


"  My  noble  lord  is  placed  within 

A  safe  and  sure  retreat" — 
"  Now  tell  us  where,  thou  lady  bright, 

As  thou  wouldst  mercy  meet, 
Nor  deem  thy  life  can  purchase  his ; 

He  can  not  'scape  our  wrath, 
For  many  a  warrior's  watchful  eye 

Is  placed  o'er  every  path. 

"But  thou  mayst  win  his  broad  estates, 

To  grace  thine  infant  heir, 
And  life  and  honor  to  thyself, 

So  thou  his  haunts  declare." 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart ; 

Her  eye  flashed  proud  and  clear, 
And  firmer  grew  her  haughty  tread — 

"  My  lord  is  hidden  here  ! 

"  And  if  ye  seek  to  view  his  form, 

Ye  first  must  tear  away. 
From  round  his  secret  dwelling-place. 

These  walls  of  living  clay  !" 
They  quailed  beneath  her  haughty  glance 

They  silent  turned  aside, 
And  left  her  all  unharmed  amidst 

Her  loveliness  and  pride ! 
149 


150 


ELIZABETH    M.    CHANDLER. 


THE  BATTLE   FIELD. 

THE  last  fading  sunbeam  has  sunk  in  the  ocean, 
And  darkness  has  shrouded  the  fore.st  and  hill  ; 
The  scenes  that  late  rang  with  the  battle's  commotion 
Now  sleep  'neath  the  moonbeams  serenely  and  still 
Yet  light  misty  vapors  above  them  sti  1  hover, 
And  dimly  the  pale  beaming  crescent  discover, 
Though  all  the  stern  clangor  of  conflict  is  over, 
And  hushed  the  wild  trump-note  that  echoed  so 
shrill. 

Around  me  the  steed  and  the  rider  are  lying, 
To  wake  at  the  bugle's  loud  summons  no  more  — 
And  here  is  the  banner  that  o'er  them  was  flying, 
Torn,  trampled,  and  sullied,  with  earth  and  with 

gore. 
With  morn  —  where  the  conflict  the  wildest  was  roar 

ing, 
Where  sabres  were  clashing,  and  death  -shot  were 

pouring, 

That  banner  was  proudest  and  loftiest  soaring  —  • 
Now  —  standard  and  bearer  alike  are  no  more  ! 

All  hushed  !  not  a  breathing  of  life  from  the  numbers 

That,  scattered  around  me,  so  heavily  sleep  — 
Hath  the  cup  of  red  wine  lent  its  fumes  to  their 

slumbers, 
And  stained  their  bright  garments  with  crimson  so 

deep! 

Ah  no  !  these  are  not  like  gay  revellers  sleeping, 
The  nightwirids,  unfeit,  o'er  their  bosoms  are  sweep 

ing, 
Ignobly  their  plumes  o'er  the  damp  ground  are  creep 

ing, 

And  dews,  all  uncared  for,  their  bright  falchions 
steep. 

Bright  are  they  1  at  morning  they  were  —  ay,  at 

morning 
Yon  forms  were  proud  warriors,  with  hearts  beat 

ing  high  ; 

The  smiles  of  stern  valor  their  lips  were  adorning, 
And  triumph  flashed  out  from  the  glance  of  their 

eye  ! 

But  now  :  sadly  altered  the  evening  hath  found  them, 
They  care  not  for  conquest,  disgrace  can  not  wound 

them, 
Distinct  but  in  name,  from  the  earth  spread  around 

them, 
Beside  their  red  broadswords  unconscious  they  lie. 

How  still  is  the  scene  !  save  when  dismally  whooping, 

The  nightbird  afar  hails  the  gathering  gloom,  [ing 

Or  a  heavy  sound  tells  that  their  comrades  are  scoop- 

A  couch,  where  the  sleepers  may  rest  in  the  tomb. 

.Mas!  ere  yon  planet  again  shall  be  lighted, 

"What  hearts  shall   be  broken,  what  hopes  will  be 

blighted, 
How  many,  midst  sorrow's  dark  storm-clouds  be 

nighted, 
Shall  envy,  e'en  while  they  lament,  for  thy  doom. 

Oh  war!  when  thou'rt  clothed  in  the  garments  of 


, 

When  Freedom  has  lighted  thy  torch  'at  her  shrine, 
And  proudly  thy  deeds  are  emblazoned  in  story, 
We  think  nut,  we  feel  not,  what  horrors  are  thine. 


B  ut  oh,when  the  victors  and  vanquish'd  have  parted, 

When  'onely  we  stand  on  the  war  ground  deserted, 

And  (hinicof  the  dead,  and  of  those  broken  hearted, 

Thy  blood-sprinkled  laurel  wreath  ceases  to  shine. 

A  REVOLUTIONARY  SOLDIER'S  PRAYER. 

I  CAUK  not  for  the  hurried  march 

Through  August's  burning  noon, 
Nor  for  the  long  cold  ward  at  night, 

Beneath  the  dewy  moon ; 
I've  calmly  felt  the  winter's  storms 

O'er  my  unsheltered  head, 
And  trod  the  snow  with  naked  foot, 

Till  every  track  was  red  ! 

My  soldier's  fare  is  poor  and  scant — 

'Tis  what  my  comrades  share, 
Yon  heaven  my  only  canopy — 

But  that  I  well  can  bear; 
A  dull  and  feverish  weight  of  pain 

Is  pressing  on  my  brow, 
And  I  am  faint  with  recent  wounds — 

For  that  I  care  not  now. 

But  oh,  I  long  once  more  to  view 

My  childhood's  dwelling-place, 
To  clasp  my  mother  to  my  heart — 

To  see  my  father's  face  ! 
To  list  each  well-remembered  tone, 

To  gaze  on  every  eye 
That  met  my  ear,  or  thrilled  my  heart, 

In  moments  long  gone  by. 

In  vain  with  long  and  frequent  draught 

Of  every  wave  I  sip — 
A  quenchless  and  consuming  thirst 

Is  ever  on  my  lip ! 
The  very  air  that  fans  my  cheek 

No  blessed  coolness  brings — 
A  burning  heat  or  chilling  damp 

Is  ever  on  its  wings. 

Oh  !  let  me  seek  my  home  once  more— 

For  but  a  little  while — 
But  once  above  my  couch  to  see 

My  mother's  gentle  smile  ; 
It  haunts  me  in  my  waking  hours — 

'T  is  ever  in  my  dreams, 
With  all  the  pleasant  paths  of  home, 

Rocks,  woods,  and  shaded  streams. 
There  is  a  fount — I  know  it  well 

It  springs  beneath  a  rock, 
Oh,  how  its  coolness  and  its  light, 

My  feverish  'fancies  mock ! 
I  pine  to  lay  me  by  its  side, 

And  bathe  my  lips  and  brow, 
'T  would  give  new  fervor  to  the  heart 

That  beats  so  languid  now. 
I  may  not — I  must  linger  here — 

Perchance  it  may  be  just ! 
But  well  I  know  this  yearning  soon 

Will  scorch  my  heart  to  dust ; 
One  breathing  of  my  native  air 

Had  called  me  back  to  life — 
But  I  must  die — must  waste  away 

Beneath  this  inward  strife  ! 


ELIZABETH    M.    CHANDLER. 


151 


THE  BRANDYWINE 

MY  foot  has  climbed  the  rocky  summit's  height, 
And  in  mute  rapture  from  its  lofty  brow 
Mine  eye  is  gazing  round  me  with  delight 
On  all  of  beautiful,  above,  below: 
The  fleecy  smoke-wreath  upward  curling  slow, 

The  silvery  waves  half  hid  with  bowering  green, 

That  far  beiK-ath  in  gentle  murmurs  flow, 

Or  on  ward  dash  in  foam  or  sparkling  sheen  :  [scene. 

While  rocks  and  forest-boughs  hide  ha  f  the  distant 
In  sooth,  from  this  bright  wilderness  'tis  sweet 
To  look  through  loopholes  formed  bv  forest  boughs, 
And  view  t.,e  landscape  far  beneath  the  feet, 
Where  cultivation  all  its  aid  bestows, 
And  o  er  the  scene  an  added  beauty  throws; 
The  busy  harvest  group,  the  distant  mill, 
Tht-  quiet  cattle  stretched  in  calm  repose, 
Thn  cot,  ha  f  seen  behind  the  sloping  hill — 

A  I  minted  in  one  scene  with  most  enchanting  skill 
The  very  air  that  breathes  around  rny  cheek — 
T.ie  summer  fragrance  of  my  native  hil.s — 
See. us  with  t  .e  voice  of  other  times  to  speak, 
And,  while  it  each  unquiet  feeling  stills,  ,- 
Mv  pensive  sou1  with  hallowed  memories  fills: 
My  fathers'  hall  is  there ;  their  feet  have  pressed 
Tli  >  il  nver-gemnied  margin  of  these  gushing  rills, 
When  lightly  on  the  water's  dimpled  breast  [rest. 

Their  own  light  bark  beside  the  frail  canoe  would 
ri  he  rj;/k  was  once  your  dwel  ing-place,  my  sires  ! 
Or  cavern  scooped  within  the  green  hih's  side; 
The  pr  Avling  wolf  fled  far  your  beacon  fires, 
And  tae  kind  Indian  half  your  wants  supplied; 
While  round  \  our  necks  the  wampum-belt  he  tied, 
He  bade  you  on  his  lands  in  peace  abide, 
Nor  dread  the  wakening  of  the  midnight  brand, 

Oraught  of  broken  faith  to  loose  the  peacebelt's  band. 
Oh  !   if  there  is  in  beautiful  and  fair 
A  potency  to  charm,  a  power  to  bless ; 
If  bright  blue  skies  and  music-breathing  air, 
And  nature  in  her  every  varied  dress 
Of  peaceful  beauty  and  wi  d  loveliness, 
Can  shed  across  the  heart  one  sunshine  ray, 
'J  hen  others,  too,  sweet  stream,  with  only  less 
Th  in  mine  own  joy, shall  gaze. and  bear  away  [day 

So.ne  cherished  thought  of  thee  for  many  a  coining 
But  yet  not  utterly  obscure  thy  hanks, 
N  >r  all  unknown  to  history's  page  thy  name; 
For  there  wi  d  war  hath  poured  his  battle  ranks, 
And  stamped  in  characters  of  blood  and  flame, 
Thine  annals  in  the  chronicles  of  fame. 
The  wave  t'lat  ripples  on,  so  calm  and  still, 
Hath  trembled  at  the  war-cry's  loud  acclaim, 
T.ie  cannon's  voice  hath  rolled  from  hill  to  hill, 

And  midst  thy  echoing  vales  the  trump  hath  sounded 

shrill. 

My  country's  standard  waved  on  yonder  height, 
Her  red  cross  banner  England  there  displayed, 
And  there  the  German,  who,  for  foreign  fight, 
Had  left  his  own  domestic  hearth,  and  made 
War,  with  its  horrors  and  its  blood,  a  trade, 
Amidst  the  battle  stood  ;  and  all  the  day, 
The  bursting  bomb,  the  furious  cannonade, 
The  bugle's  martial  notes,  the  musket's  play, 

In  mingled  uproar  wild,  resounded  far  away. 


Thick  clouds  of  smoke  obscured  the  clear  bright 
And  hung  above  them  like  a  funeral  pall,    [sky, 
Shrouding  both  friend  and  foe,  so  soon  to  lie 
Like  brethren  slumbering  in  one  father's  hall  : 
The  work  of  death  went  on,  and  when  the  fall 
Of  night  came  onward  silently,  and  shed    .„ 
A  dreary  hush,  where  late  was  uproar  all, 
How  many  a  brother's  heart  in  anguish  bled  [dead. 

O'er  cherished  ones,  who  there  lay  resting  with  the 
Unshrouded  and  uncoffined  they  were  laid 
Within  the  soldier's  grave — e'en  where  they  fell: 
At  noon  they  proudly  trod  the  field — the  spado 
At  night  dug  out  their  resting-place ;  and  well 
And  calmly  did  they  slumber,  though  no  bell 
Pea'ed  over  them  its  solemn  music  slow  : 
The  night  winds  sung  their  only  dirge — their  knell 
Was  but  the  owlet's  boding  cry  of  wo,   [ters'  flow. 

The  flap  of  nighthawk's  wing,  and  murmuring  wa- 
But  it  is  over  now — the  plough  hath  rased 
All  trace  of  where  War's  wasting  hand  hath  been : 
No  vestige  of  the  battle  may  be  traced, 
Save  where  the  share,  in  passing  o'er  the  scene, 
Turns  up  some  rusted  ball ;  the  maize  is  green 
On  what  was  once  the  death-bed  of  the  brave ; 
The  waters  have  resumed  their  wonted  sheen, 
The  wild  bird  sings  in  cadence  with  the  wave, 

And  naught  remains  to  show  the  sleeping  soldier's 

grave. 

A  pebble-stone  that  on  the  war-field  lay, 
And  a  wild  rose  that  blossomed  brightly  there, 
Were  all  the  relics  that  I  bore  away, 
To  tell  that  I  had  trod  the  scene  of  war, 
When  I  had  turned  my  footsteps  homeward  far 
These  may  seem  childish  things  to  some ;  to  me 
They  shall  he  treasured  ones — and,  like  the  stai 
That  guides  the  sailor  o'er  the  pathless  sea, 

They  shall  lead  back  my  thoughts,  loved  Brandy- 
wine,  to  thee ! 


SUMMER  MORNING. 

'T  is  beautiful,  when  first  the  dewy  light 
Breaks  on  the  earth  !  while  yet  the  scented  air 
Is  breathing  the  cool  freshness  of  the  night, 

And  the  bright  clouds  a  tint  of  crimson  wear 

When  every  leafy  chalice  holds  a  draught 
Of  nightly  dew,  for  the  hot  sun  to  drink,    [laughed 
When  streams  gush  sportively,  as  though  they 
For  very  joyousness,  and  seemed  to  shrink 
In  playful  terror  from  the  rocky  brink 
Of  some,  s'ight  precipice — then  with  quick  leap 
Bound  lightly  o'er  the  barrier,  and  sink 
In  their  own  whirling  eddy,  and  then  sweep 
With  rippling  music  on,  or  in  their  channels  sleep ! 

While  lights  and  shades  play  on  them  with  each 

breath 

That  moves  the  calm,  still  waters;  when  the  fly 
Skims  o'er  the  surface,  and  all  things  beneath 
Gleam  brightly  through  the  flood,  and  fish  glanco 
With  a  quick  flash  of  beauty  ,   vhen  the  sky    [by 
Wears  a  deep  azure  brightness,  and  the  song 
Of  matin  gladness  lifts  its  voice  on  h(gh, 
And  mingled  harmony  and  perfume  throng 
On  every  whispering  breeze  that  lightly  floats  along 


THE    DAVIDSONS. 


THE  lives  of  LUCRETIA  MARIA  and  MAR- 
SARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON,  which  ii  is  impos 
sible  to  contemplate  without  emotions  of 
admiration  and  sadness,  have  been  illustra 
ted  at  home  by  Professor  Morse,  by  Wash 
ington  Irving-,  and  by  Miss  Sedgwick,  and 
abroad  by  Mr.  Southey  and  several  other 
authors  of  well-deserved  eminence  in  the 
literary  world.  An  attempt  to  invest  them 
with  any  new  interest  would  therefore  be 
in  vain.  It  is  duubtful  whether  the  annals 
of  literary  composition  can  show  anything, 
produced  at  the  same  age,  finer  than  some 
of  their  poems  ;  and  the  beauty  of  their  char 
acters,  which  appear  to  have  had  in  them 
something  of  angelic  holiness,  fitted  them  as 
well  to  shine  in  heaven,  as  their  genius  to 
win  the  applauses  of  the  w^orld. 

Those  who  are  familiar  with  our  literary 
history  may  remember  that  a  remarkable 
precocity  of  intellect  has  been  frequently  ex 
hibited  in  this  country.  The  cases  of  Lu- 
cretia  and  Margaret  Davidson  are  perhaps 
more  interesting  than  any  which  have  re 
ceived  the  general  attention  ;  but  they  are 
not  the  most  wonderful  that  have  been  known 
here.  A  few  years  ago  I  was  shown,  by  one 
of  the  house  of  Harper  and  Brothers,  the 
publishers,  some  verses  by  a  girl  but  eight 
years  of  age  — the  daughter  of  a  gentleman 
in  Connecticut  — that  seemed  nut  inferior  to 
any  composed  by  the  Davidsons  ;  and  other 
prodigies  of  the  same  kind  are  at  this  time 
exciting  the  hopes  of  more  than  one  family. 
Greatness  is  not  often  developed  in  child 
hood,  and  where  a  strange  precocity  is  ob 
servable,  it  is  generally  but  an  early  and 
complete  maturity  of  the  mind.  We  can 
not  always  decide,  to  even  our  own  satisfac 
tion,  whether  it  is  so,  but  as  the  writings  of 
i!i»  -r  children,  when  they  were  from  nine  to 
lifer;!  years  of  age,  exhibited  no  advance 
ment,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that,  like 
the  wonderful  boy  Zerah  Colburn,  of  Ver 
mont,  whose  arithmetical  calculations  many 
years  ago  astonished  the  world,  they  would 
have  possessed  in  their  physical  maturity  no 
high  or  peculiar  intellectual  qualities. 


The  father  of  Lucretia  and  Margaret  Da 
vidson   was  a  physician.      Their  'mother's 
maiden  name  was  Margaret  Miller.     She 
was  a  woman  of  an  ardent  temperament  and 
an  affectionate  disposition,  and  had  been  care- 
|  fully  educated.     Lucretia  was  born  in  the 
village  of  Plattsburg,  in  New  York,  on  the 
twenty-seventh  of  September,  1808.     In  her 
infancy  she  was  exceedingly  fragile,  but  she 
grew  stronger  when  about  eighteen  months 
old,  and  though  less  vigorous  than  most  chil 
dren  of  her  age,  suffered  little  for  several 
years  from  sickness.     She  learned  the  al 
phabet  in   her  third  year,  and  at  four  was. 
sent  to  a  public  school,  where  she  was  taught 
to  read  and  to  form  letters  in  sand,  after  the 
Lancasterian  system.     As  soon  as  she  could 
read,  her  time  was  devoted  to  the  little  books 
that  were  given  to  her,  and  to  composition. 
Her  mother,  at  one  time,  wishing  to  write  a 
letter,  found  that  a  quire  or  more  of  paper 
had  disappeared  from  the  place  where  wri 
ting  implements  were  kept,  and  when  she 
made  inquiries  in  regard  to  it,  the  child  came 
forward    and   acknowledged    that   she   had 
"  used  it."    As  Mrs.  Davidson  knew  she  had 
not  been  taught  to  write,  she  was  surprised, 
and  inquired  in  what   manner  it  had  been 
destroyed.     Lucretia  burst  into  tears,  and 
replied  that  she  did  not  like  to  tell.     The 
question  was  not  urged.     The  paper  contin 
ued   to  disappear,  and   she  was  frequently 
observed  with  little  blank  books,  and  pens, 
arid  ink,   sedulously  shunning  observation. 
At  length,  when  she  was  about  six  years  old, 
her  mother  found  hidden  in  a  closet,  rarely 
opened,  a  parcel  of  papers  which  proved  to 
be  her  manuscript  books.     On  one  side  of 
each  leaf  was  an  artfully  sketched  picture, 
and  on  the  other,  in  rudely  formed  letters, 
were  poetical  explanations. 

From  this  time  she  acquired  knowledge 
very  rapidly,  studying  intensely  at  school, 
and  reading  in  every  leisure  moment  at  home. 
When  about  twelve  years  of  age  she  accom 
panied  her  father  to  a  celebration  of  the 
birth-night  of  Washington.  She  had  stud 
ied  the  history  of  the  father  of  his  country. 
152 


THE    DAVIDSONS. 


and  the  scene  awakened  her  enthusiasm. 
The  next  day  an  older  sister  found  her  ab 
sorbed  in  writing.  She  had  drawn  an  urn, 
and  written  two  stanzas  beneath  it.  They 
were  shown  to  her  mother,  who  expressed 
her  delight  with  such  animation  that  the 
child  immediately  added  the  concluding  ver 
ses,  and  returned  with  the  poem  as  it  is 
printed  in  her  Remains : 

And  does  a  hero's  dust  lie  here  1 
Columbia  !  gaze  and  drop  a  tear ! 
His  country's  and  the  orphan's  friend, 
See  thousands  o'er  his  ashes  bend  ! 

Among  the  heroes  of  the  age, 
He  was  the  warrior  and  the  sage : 
He  left  a  train  of  glory  bright, 
Which  never  will  be  hid  in  night. 

The  toils  of  war  and  danger  past, 

He  reaps  a  rich  reward  at  last ; 

His  pure  soul  mounts  on  cherub's  wings, 

And  now  with  saints  and  angels  sings. 

The  brightest  on  the  list  of  fame, 

In  golden  letters  shines  his  name  ; 

Her  trump  shall  sound  it  through  the  world, 

And  the  striped  banner  ne'er  be  furled  ! 

And  every  sex,  and  every  age, 
From  lisping  boy  to  learned  sage, 
The  widow,  and  her  orphan  son, 
Revere  the  name  of  Washington. 

She  continued  to  write  with  much  indus 
try  from  this  period.  In  the  summer  of  1823, 
her  health  being  very  feeble,  she  was  with 
drawn  from  school,  and  sent  on  a  visit  to 
some  friends  in  Canada.  In  Montreal  she 
was  delighted  with  the  public  buildings,  mar 
tial  parades,  pictures,  and  other  novel  sights, 
and  she  returned  to  Plattsburg  with  renova 
ted  health.  Her  sister  Margaret  was  born 
on  the  twenty-sixth  of  March,  1823,  and  a 
few  days  afterward,  while  holding  the  infant 
in  her  lap,  she  wrote  the  following  lines: 

Sweet  babe  !  I  can  not  hope  that  thou  'It  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all  since  earliest  time  decreed  ; 
But  may'st  thou  be  with  resignation  blessed, 
To  bear  each  evil  howsoe'er  distressed. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form  ; 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace, 
To  the  rude  whirlwind  softly  whisper — cease  ! 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's  own  darling  child, 
Teach  tbee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile — 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  that  world  of  wo, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 
And  when  this  vale  of  years  is  safely  passed, 
When  Death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
•  And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 


In  the  summer  of  1824  she  finished  her 
longest  poem,  Amir  Khan,  and  in  the  autumn 
of  the  same  year  was  sent  to  the  seminary  of 
Mrs.  Willard,  at  Troy,  where  she  remained 
during  the  winter.  In  May,  1825,  after 
spending  several  weeks  at  home,  she  was 
transferred  to  a  boarding-school  at  Albany, 
and  here  her  health,  which  had  before  been 
slightly  affected,  rapidly  declined.  In  com 
pany  with  her  mother,  and  Mr.  Moss  Kent, 
a  gentleman  of  fortune,  who- had  undertaken 
to  defray  the  costs  of  her  education,  she  re 
turned  to  Plattsburg  in  July,  and  died  there 
on  the  twenty-seventh  of  August,  one  month 
before  her  seventeenth  birthday.  She  re 
tained,  until  her  death,  the  purity  and  sim 
plicity  of  childhood,  and  died  in  the  confident 
hope  of  immortal  happiness. 

Soon  after  her  death,  her  poems  and  prose 
writings  were  published,  with  a  memoir  by 
Mr.  S.  F.  B.  Morse,  of  New  York,  and  an 
elaborate  biography  of  her  life  and  character 
has  since  been  written  by  Miss  C.  M.  Sedg- 
wick,  the  author  of  Hope  Leslie,  etc.  The 
following  verses  are  among  the  most  perfect 
she  produced.  They  were  addressed  to  her 
sister,  Mrs.  Townsend,  in  her  fifteenth  year : 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 

And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven ; 
Wrhen  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound, 

To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given  ; 
When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 

And  looks  around  with  golden  eye ; 
When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 

Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie ; 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give : 

Oh,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 

And  hovering,  trembles,  half  afraid, 
Oh,  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 

Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 
'T  were  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 

Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day — • 
Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing, 

And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Shouldst  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  1 

At  the  same  age  she  wrote  these  lines  To  a 

Star  : 

Thou  brightly  glittering  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  heaven. 
Oh  !  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 
How  quick  't  would  spread  its  wings  to  th»»3. 


lf)4 


THE    DAVIDSONS. 


How  ca'rnly,  brightly,  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  Virtue's  shrine  : 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  may'st  boast 
Was  never  ransomed,  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys,  together  share  ; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string, 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There,  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  Heaven's  refulgent  lights — 
There  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll, 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  heaven, 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee, 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free. 

In  her  sixteenth  year  she  wrote  Three 
Prophecies,  of  which  the  following  is  one  : 

Let- me  gaze  awhile  on  that  marble  brow, 
On  that  full,  dark  eye,  on  that  cheek's  warm  glow ; 
Let.  me  gaze  for  a  moment,  that,  ere  I  die, 
I  may  read  thee,  maiden,  a  prophecy. 
That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  awhile  ; 
That  cheek  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  may  smile ; 
That  full,  dark  eye  may  brightly  beam 
In  life's  gay  morn,  in  hope's  young  dream  ; 
But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow,     ' 
And  sorrow  bright  thy  bosom's  glow. 
I  know  by  that  spirit  so  haughty  and  high, 
I  know  by  that  brightly  flashing  eye, 
That,  maiden,  there's  that  within  thy  breast 
Which  hath  marked  thee  out  for  a  soul  unblessed: 
The  strife  of  love  with  pride  shall  wring 
Thy  youthful  bosom's  tenderest  string; 
And  the  cup  of  sorrow,  mingled  for  thee, 
Shall  be  drained  to  the  dregs  in'agony. 
5Tes,  maiden,  yes,  I  read  in  thine  eye 
A  dark  and  a  doubtful  prophecy  : 
Thou  shall  love,  and  that  love  shall  be  thy  curse ; 
Thou  wilt  need  no  heavier,  thou  shalt  feel  no  worse. 
I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near ; 
The  voice  of  the  troubled  tide  I  hear ; 
The  torrent  of  sorrow,  the  sea  of  grief, 
The  rushing  waves  of  a  wretched  life : 
Thy  bosom's  bark  on  the  surge  I  see, 
And,  maiden,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee. 
Not  a  star  in  the  heavens,  not  a  light  on  the  wave  : 
Maiden,  I've  gazed  on  thine  early  grave. 
When  I  am  cold,  and  the  hand  of  Death 
Hath  crowned  my  brow  with  an  icy  wreath  ; 
When  the  dew  hangs  damp  on  this  motionless  lip; 
When  this  eye  is  closed  in  its  long,  last  sleep : 
Then,  maiden,  pause,  when  thy  heart  beats  high, 
And  think  on  my  last  sad  prophecy. 

In  a  more  sportive  vein  is  the  piece  enti 
tled  Auction  Extraordinary,  written  about  the 
same  period  : 

I  dreamed  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 
And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it,  it  came  into  numbers ; 
My  thoughts  ran  along  w  such  beautiful  me*re, 
I 'in  sure  I  ne'er  saw  any  poetry  sweeter: 


It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made, 
That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid 
And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 
The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  cou'd  well  carry 
The  bachelors  grumbled,  and  said  'twas  no  use— 
'Twas  horrid  injustice,  and  horrid  abuse, 
And  declared  that  to  save  their  own  hearts'  blooc 

from  spilling, 

Of  such  a  vi  e  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling 
But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 
So  they  set  all  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vendue: 
A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 
To  rattle  his  bell,  and  his  trumpet  to  blow, 
And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way, 
"  Ho  !  forty  o'd  bachelors  sold  here  to-day  :" 
And  presently  all  the  o'd  maids  in  the  town, 
Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 
From  thirty  to  sixt\,  fair,  plain,  red,  and  pale, 
Of  every  description,  all  flocked  to  the  sale. 
The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labor  began, 
And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 
"  How  much  for  a  bachelor  ?  who  wants  to  buy  ?' 
In  a  twink,  every  maiden  responded,  "  I, — I." 
In  short,  at  a  highly  extravagant  price, 
The  bachelors  all  were  sold  off  in  a  trice  : 
And  forty  old  maidens,  some  younger,  some  older, 
Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 

A  few  months  hefore  her  death  she  wrote 
this  address  to  her  mo  Jier  : 

Oh  thou  whose  care  sustained  my  infant  years, 

And  taught  my  prattling  lip  each  note  of  love ; 
Whose  soothing  voice  breathed  comfort  to  my  fears, 

And  round  my  brow  hope's  brightest  garland  wove: 
To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simplest  song, 

Which  Nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day ; 
To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 

Whose  heart  indulgent  will  not  spurn  my  lay. 
Oh  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life,  [me  ? 

What  boso;n  would  have  throbbed  like  thine  for 
WTho  would  have  smiled  responsive  1 — who  in  grief 

Would  e'er  have  felt,and,feeang,  grieved  like  thee? 

Who  would  have  guarded,  with  a  falcon  eye, 
Each  trembling  footstep  or  each  sport  of  fear? 

Who  would  have  marked  my  bosom  bounding  high, 
And  clasped  me  to  her  heart,with  love's  bright  tear? 

Who  would  have  hung  around  my  sleepless  couch, 
And  fanned,  with  anxious  hand,  my  burning  brow? 

Who  would  have  fondly  pressed  my  fevered  lip, 
In  all  the  agony  of  love  and  wo  ? 

Vone  but  a  mother — none  but  one  like  thee, 

WThose  bloom  has  faded  in  the  midnight  watch ; 
Whose  eye,  for  me,  has  lost  its  witchery ; 

Whose  form  has  felt  disease's  mildew  touch. 
Yes,  thou  hast  lighted  me  to  health  and  life, 

By  the  bright  lustre  of  thy  youthful  bloom — • 
Yes,  thou  hast  wept  so  oft  o'er  every  grief. 

That  wo  hath  traced  thy  brow  with  marks  of  gloom. 
Oh,  then,  to  thee  this  rude  and  simple  song, 

Which  breathes  of  thankfulness  and  love  for  thee, 
To  thee,  my  mother,  shall  this  lay  belong, 

Whose  life  is  spent  in  toil  and  care  for  me. 


THE    DAVIDSONS. 


155 


She  died  with  her  "  singing  robes"  about 
her,  having  composed,  while  confined  to  her 
bed  in  her  last  illness,  these  verses,  expres 
sive  of  her  fear  of  madness  : 

There  is  a  something  which  I  dread, 

It  is  a  dark,  a  fearful  thing  ; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread, 
Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 
Of  grief,  of  sickness,  or  of  sadness  : 

'Tis  not  the  dread  of  death — 'tis  more, 
It  is  the  dread  of  madness. 

Oh  !  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause, 
Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course  ; 

May  this  hot  brain,  which  burning,  glows 
With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  forcr 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still — 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed  ; 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal 

The  poem  is  unfinished,  and  it  is  the  last 
she  wrote. 

MARGARET  DAVIDSON,  at  the  time  of  the 
death  of  Lucretia,  was  not  quite  two  years 
old.  The  event  made  a  deep  and  lasting 
impression  on  her  mind.  She  loved,  when 
but  three  years  old,  to  sit  on  a  cushion  at  her 
mother's  feet,  listening  to  anecdotes  of  her 
sister's  life,  and  details  of  the  events  which 
preceded  her  death,  and  would  often  exclaim, 
while  her  face  beamed  with  mingled  emo 
tions,  "Oh,  I  will  try  to  fill  her  place  —  teach 
me  to  be  like  her  !"  She  needed  little  teach 
ing.  In  intelligence,  delicacy,  and  suscep 
tibility,  she  surpassed  Lucretia.  When  in 
her  sixth  year,  she  could  read  with  fluency, 
and  would  sit  by  the  bedside  of  her  sick 
mother,  reading,  with  enthusiastic  delight 
and  appropriate  emphasis,  the  poetry  of 
Milton,  Cowper,  Thomson,  and  other  great 
authors,  and  marking,  with  discrimination, 
the  passages  with  which  she  was  most 
pleased.  Between  the  sixth  and  seventh 
years  of  her  age,  she  entered  on  a  general 
course  of  education,  studying  grammar,  ge 
ography,  history,  and  rhetoric  ;  but  her  con 
stitution  had  already  begun  to  show  symp 
toms  of  decay,  which  rendered  it  expedient 
to  check  her  application.  In  her  seventh 
summer  she  was  taken  to  the  springs  of 
Saratoga,  the  waters  of  which  seemed  to 
have  a  beneficial  effect,  and  she  afterward 
accompanied  her  parents  to  New  York,  with 
which  city  she  was  highly  delighted.  On 
her  return  to  Plattsburg,  her  strength  was 
much  increased,  and  she  resumed  her  stud 
ies  with  great  assiduity.  In  the  autumn 


of  1830,  however,  her  health  began  to  fail 
again,  and  it  was  thought  proper  for  her  and 
her  mother  to  join  Mrs.  Townsend,  an  elder 
sister,  in  an  inland  town  of  Canada.  She 
remained  here  until  1833,  when  she  had  a 
severe  attack  of  scarlet  fever,  and  on  her 
slow  recovery  it  was  determined  to  go  again 
to  New  York.  Her  residence  in  the  city  was 
protracted  until  the  summer  heat  became 
oppressive,  and  she  expressed  her  yearnings 
for  the  banks  of  the  Saranac,  in  the  following 
lines,  which  are  probably  equal  to  any  ever 
written  by  so  young  an  author  : 

I  would  fly  from  the  city,  would  fly  from  its  care, 
To  my  own  native  plants  and  my  flowerets  so  fair, 
To  the  cool  grassy  shade  and  the  rivulet  bright, 
Which  reflects  the  pale  moon  in  its  bosom  of  light: 
Again  would  I  view  the  old  cottage  so  dear, 
Where  I  sported,  a  babe,  without  sorrow  or  fear: 
I  would  leave  this  great  city,  so  brilliant  and  gay, 
For  a  peep  at  my  home  on  this-  fair  summer-day. 
I  have  friends  whom  I  love,  and  would  leave  with 

regret, 

But  the  love  of  my  home,  oh,  'tis  tenderer  yet; 
There  a  sister  reposes  unconscious  in  death, 
'T  was  there  she  first  drew,  and  there  yielded  her 
A  father  I  love  is  away  from  me  now —    [breath. 
Oh,  could  I  but  print  a  sweet  kiss  on  his  brow, 
Or  smooth  the  gray  locks  to  my  fond  heart  so  dear, 
How  quick'y  would  vanish  each  trace  of  a  tear: 
Attentive  I  listen  to  Pleasure's  gay  call, 
But  my  own  happy  home,  it  is  dearer  than  all. 

The  family  soon  after  became  temporary 
residents  of  the  village  of  Ballston,  near  Sa- 
ratoga,and,intheau;umn  of  1835,  of  Rure- 
mont,  on  the  sound,  or  East  river,  about  four 
miles  from  New  York.  Here  they  remained, 
except  at  short  intervals,  until  the  summer 
of  1837,  when  they  returned  4o  Ballston.  In 
the  last  two  years,  Margaret  had  suffered 
much  from  illness  herself,  and  had  lost  by 
death  her  sister  Mrs.  Townsend  and  two 
brothers  ;  and  now  her  mother  became  alarm 
ingly  ill.  As  the  season  advanced,  however, 
health  seemed  to  revisit  all  the  surviving 
members  of  the  family,  and  Margaret  was 
as  happy  as  at  any  period  of  her  life.  Early 
in  1838,  Dr.  Davidson  took  a  house  in  Sara 
toga,  to  which  he  removed  on  the  first  of 
May.  Here  she  had  an  attack  of  bleeding 
at  the  lungs,  but  recovered,  and  when  her 
brothers  visited  home  from  New  York,  she 
returned  with  them  to  the  city,  and  remained 
there  several  weeks.  She  reached  Saratoga 
again  in  July  ;  the  bloom  had  for  the  last 
time  left  her  cheeks  ;  and  she  decayed  grad 
ually  until  the  twenty-fifth  of  November 


156 


THE    DAVIDSONS. 


when  her  spirit  returned  to  God.  She  was 
then  but  fifteen  years  and  eight  months  old. 
She  was  aware  of  her  approaching  change, 
and  in  the  preceding  September  she  wrote  a 
short  poem,  characterized  by  much  beauty  of 
thought  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  to  her  bro 
ther,  a  young  officer  in  the  army,  stationed 
at  a  frontier  post  in  the  west,  in  which  an 
allusion  lo  the  fading  verdure,  and  falling 
leaf,  and  gathering  melancholy,  and  lifeless 
quiet  of  the  season,  as  typical  of  her  own 
b.i  .jilted  youth  and  approaching  dissolution, 
is  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Irving  as  having  in  it 
s^moJiing  peculiarly  solemn  and  affecting. 
"  Bu  when,"  she  says: 

"  But  when,  in  the  s'.iadc  of  the  autumn  wood, 

i  nv  wandering  footsteps  stray  ; 
When  yel  ow  leaves  and  perishing  buds 

Are  scattered  in  ti.y  way  ; 
When  all  around  thce  breathes  of  rest, 

And  sad.ioss  and  decay — 
With  the  drooping  tbwer,  and  the  fallen  tree, 
Oh,  brother,  b.end  thy  thoughts  of  me  !" 

Her  later  poems  do  not  seern  to  me  supe 
rior  to  some  written  in  her  eleventh  year, 
and  the  prose  compositions  included  in  the 
volume  of  her  Remains,  edited  by  Mr.  Irving, 
are  not  better  than  those  of  many  girls  of 
her  age.  One  cf  her  latest  and  most  perfect 
pieces  is  the  dedication  of  a  poem  entitled 
Leonore  to  the  spirit  of  her  sister  Lucretia: 
Oh,  thou,  so  early  lost,  so  long  deplored  ! 

Pure  spirit  of  my  sister,  be  thou  near  ! 
And  while  I  t.iuch  this  hallowed  harp  of  thine, 

Bend  from  the  skies,  sweet  sister,  bend  and  hear. 
For  thee  I  pour  this  unaffected  lay ; 

To  thee  these  simple  numbers  all  belong: 
For  though  thine  earthly  form  has  passed  away, 

Thy  memory  still  inspires  my  childish  song. 
Take,  then,  this  feeble  tribute — 'tis  thine  own — 

Thy  fingers  sweep  my  trembling  heart-strings  o'er, 
Arouse  to  harmony  each  buried  tone, 

And  bid  its  wakened  music  sleep  no  more  ! 

LOIU  has  thy  voice  been  silent,  and  thy  lyre 

Hung  o'er  thy  grave,  in  death's  unbroken  rest; 
But  when  its  last  sweet  tones  were  borne  away, 

One  answering  echo  lingered  in  my  breast 
Oh,  thou  pure  spirit !  if  thou  hoverest  near, 

Accept  these  lines,  unworthy  though  they  be, 
Faint  echoes  from  thy  fount  of  song  divine, 

By  thee  inspired,  and  dedicate  to  thee  ! 

Leonore  is  the  longest  of  her  poems,  and 
it  was  commenced  after  much  reflection,  and 
written  with  care  and  a  resolution  to  do 
something  that  should  serve  as  the  measure 
}('  her  genius,  and  carry  her  name  into  the 


future.  It  is  a  story  of  romantic  love,  hap 
pily  conceived,  and  illustrated  with  some 
fine  touches  of  sentiment  and  fancy.  It  is 
a  creditable  production,  arid  would  entitle 
a  much  older  author  to  consideration  ;  but 
its  best  passages  scarcely  equal  some  of  her 
earlier  and  less  elaborate  performances. 

The  following  lines  addressed  to  her  mo 
ther,  a  few  days  before  her  death,  are  the 
last  she  ever  wrote : 

Oh,  mother,  would  the  power  were  mine 
To  wake  the  strain  thou  lovest  to  hear, 

And  breathe  each  trembling  new-born  thought 
Within  thy  fondly  listening  ear, 

As  when,  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 

My  hopes  and  fancies  wandered  free. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  hath  passed 
Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here  ; 

A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  hath  wrapped 
The  remnant  of  my  brief  career: 

No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win, 

The  sparkling  fount  hath  dried  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 

And  fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  more, 
And  oh,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem 

The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before ; 
My  soul,  with  trembling  steps  and  slow, 

Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife ; 
Oh,  may  it  prove,  as  time  rolls  on, 

The  pathway  to  eternal  life  ! 
Then,  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 
I  '11  sing  thee  as  in  "  days  of  yore." 

I  said  that  Hope  had  passed  from  earth — 
'T  was  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  heaven, 

To  whisper  of  the  soul's  new  birth, 
Of  sinners  saved  and  sins  forgiven: 

When  mine  are  washed  in  tears  away, 

Then  sha;l  my  spirit  swell  the  lay. 

When  God  shall  guide  my  soul  above, 
By  the  soft  chords  of  heavenly  love — 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  mv  heart, 
Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise: 
And  all  not  offered  at  his  sbrine, 
Dear  mother,  I  will  place  on  thine. 

In  1843,  a  volume  entitled  Selections  from 
the  Writings  of  Mrs.  Margaret  M.  Davidson, 
the  mother  of  Lucretia  Maria  and  Margaret 
Miller  Davidson,  was  published,  with  a  pref 
ace  by  Miss  Sedgwick.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  book  to  arrest  attention.  Mrs.  Davidson 
has  some  command  of  language  and  a  know 
ledge  of  versification,  and  the  chief  produc 
tion  of  her  industry  in  this  line  is  a  para 
phrase  of  six  books  of  Fingal.  Her  writings 
are  interesting  only  as  indexes  to  the  early 
culture  of  her  daughters. 


MAEY   E.    STEBBINS. 


THE  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  STEBBINS  was 
MARY  ELIZABETH  MOORE,  and  she  is  a  na 
tive  of  Maiden,  a  country  town  about  five 
miles  from  Boston,  in  which  city  she  re 
sided  until  her  removal  to  New  York,  in 
1829,  about  two  years  after  her  marriage 
with  Mr.  James  L.  Hewitt. 

Mrs.  Stebbins'  earlier  poems  appeared  in 
The  Knickerbocker  Magazine  and  other  pe 
riodicals,  under  the  signature  of  "lone," 
and  in  1 845  she  published  in  Boston  a  vol 
ume  entitled  Songs  of  our  Land  and  other 
Poems,  which  confirmed  the  high  opinions 


which  had  been  formed  of  her  abilities  from 
the  fugitive  pieces  that  had  been  popularly 
attributed  to  her.  Her  compositions  in  this 
collection  show  that  she  has  a  fine  and 
well-cultivated  understanding,  informed 
with  womanly  feeling  and  a  graceful  fancy, 
and  they  are  distinguished  in  an  unusual 
degree  for  lyrical  power  and  harmony  as 
well  as  for  sweetness  of  versification. 

Among  the  more  recent  productions  of 
Mrs.  Stebbins  are  some  pure  translations, 
which  illustrate  her  taste  and  learning 
and  fine  command  of  language. 


THE  SONGS  OF  OUR  LAND. 

YK  say  we  sing  no  household  songs, 

To  children  round  our  hearths  at  p'ay  ; 
No  minstrelsy  to  us  belongs, 

No  legend  of  a  bygone  day — 
No  old  tradition  of  the  hil  s — 
Our  giant  land  no  memory  fills  : 

We  have  no  proud  heroic  lay. 
Ye  ask  the  time-worn  storied  page — 
Ye  ask  the  lore  of  other  age, 

From  us,  a  race  of  yesterday  ! 

Of  yore,  in  Britain's  feudal  halls, 

Where  manv  a  storied  trophy  hung 
With  shield  and  banner  on  the  walls, 

The  Bard's  high  harp  was  sternly  strung 
In  praise  of  war  — its  fierce  delights — 
To  "  heroes  of  a  hundred  fights." 

The  lofty  sounding  shell  outrung  ! 
Gone  is  the  ancient  Bardic  race  : 
Their  song  hath  found  perpetual  place 

Their  country's  proud  arphives  among. 

The  stirring  Scottish  border  tale 

Pealed  from  the  chords  in  chieftain's  hall, 
The  wild  traditions  of  the  Gael 

The  wandering  harper's  lays  recall. 
Bold  themes,  Germania,  fire  thy  strings; 
And  when  the  Marseillaise  outrings, 

With  patriot  ardor  thrills  the  Gaul  : 
All  have  their  legend  and  their  song, 
Records  of  glory,  feud,  and  wrong — 

Of  conquest  wrought,  and  foeman's  fall. 
Fond  thought  the  Switzer's  bosom  fills 

When  sounds  the  "  Rans  des  Vaches"  on  high. ; 
A  race  as  ancient  as  their  hills 

Still  echoes  that  wild  mountain  cry. 
He  springs  along  the  rocky  height, 
He  marks  the  lamriergeyer's  flight. 


The  startled  chamois  bounding  by ; 
He  snuffs  the  mountain  breeze  of  morn ; 
He  winds  again  the  mountain  horn, 

And  loud  the  wakened  Alps  reply  ! 

Our  fathers  bore  from  Albion's  isle 
.     No  stories  of  her  sounding  lyres  : 
They  left  the  old  baronial  pile — 

They  left  the  harp  of  ringing  wires. 
Ours  are  the  legends  still  rehearsed, 
Ours  are  the  songs  that  g'adsome  burst 

By  a'l  your  cot  and  palace  fires  : 
Each  tree  that  in  your  soft  wind  stirs, 
Waves  o'er  our  ancient  sepulchres, 

The  sleeping  ashes  of  our  sires  ! 

They  left  the  gladsome  Christmas  chime, 

The  yule  fire,  and  the  misletoe ; 
They  left  the  vain,  ungodly  rhyme, 

For  hymns  the  solemn  paced  and  slow ; 
They  left  the  mass,  the  stoled  priest, 
The  scarlet  woman  and  the  beast, 

For  worship  rude  and  altars  low : 
Their  land,  with  its  dear  memories  fraught, 
They  left  for  liberty  of  thought — 

For  stranger  clime  and  savage  foe. 

And  forth  they  went — nerved  to  forsake 

Home,  and  the  chain  they  might  not  wear 
And  woman's  heart  was  strong  to  break 

The  links  of  love  that  bound  her  there : 
Here,  free  to  worship  and  believe, 
From  many  a  log-built  hut  at  eve 

Went  up  the  suppliant  voice  of  prayer. 
Is  it  not  writ  on  history's  page, 
That  the  strong  hand  grasped  our  heritage * 

Of  the  lion  claimed  his  forest  lair  ! 

Our  people  raised  no  loud  war  songs, 
The  shouted  no  fierce  battle  cry — 

A  bumng  memory  of  their  wrongs 
Lit  up  their  path  to  victory  • 
157 


if)  9 


MARY   E.    ST  EBB  INS. 


With  prayer  to  God  to  aid  the  right, 
The  yeoman  girded  him  for  fight, 

To  free  the  land  he  tilled,  or  die. 
They  bore  no  proud  escutcheoned  shield, 
No  blazoned  banners  to  the  field — 

Naught  but  their  watchword  "  Liberty  !" 

Their  sons — when  after-years  shall  fling 

O'er  these,  romance — when  time  hath  cast 
The  mighty  shadow  of  his  wing 

Between  them  and  the  storied  past — 
Will  tell  of  foul  oppression's  heel, 
Of  hands  that  bore  the  avenging  steel, 

And  battled  sternly  to  the  last — 
By  their  hearth-fires — on  the  free  hill-side : 
So  shall  our  songs,  o'er  every  tide, 

Swell  forth  triumphant  on  the  blast ! 

E'en  now  the  word  that  roused  our  land 

Is  calling  o'er  the  wave,  "  Awake  !" 
And  pealing  on  from  strand  to  strand, 

Wherever  ocean's  surges  break : 
Up  to  the  quickened  ear  of  toil 
It  rises  from  the  teeming  soil, 

And  bids  the  slave  his  bonds  forsake. 
Hark  !  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 
The  old  world  echoes  "  Liberty  !" 

Till  thrones  to  their  foundations  shake. 
And  ye  who  idly  set  at  naught 

The  sacred  boon  in  suffering  won, 
Read  o'er  our  page  with  glory  fraught, 

Nor  scoff  that  we  no  more  have  done  : 
Read  how  the  nation  of  the  free 
Hath  carved  her  deeds  in  history, 

Nor  count  them  bootless  every  one — 
Deeds  of  our  mighty  men  of  old, 
Whose  names  stand  evermore  enrolled 

Beneath  the  name  of  Washington  ! 
Oh,  mine  own  fair  and  glorious  land  ! 

Did  I  not  hold  such  faith  in  thee, 
As  did  the  honored  patriot  band 

That  bled  to  make  thce  great  and  free — 
Did  I  not  look  to  hear  thee  sung, 
To  hear  thy  lyre  yet  proudly  strung, 

Thou  ne'er  had  waked  my  minstrelsy : 
Arid  I  shall  hear  thy  song  resound, 
Till  from  his  shackles  man  shall  bound, 

And  shout,  exultant,  "  Liberty  !" 

THE  TWO  VOICES. 

A  VOICK  went  forth  throughout  the  land, 

And  an  answering  voice  replied 
From  the  rock-piled  mountain  fastnesses 

To  the  surging  ocean  tide. 
And  far  the  blazing  headlands  gleamed 

With  their  land-awakening  fires ; 
A  rid  the  hill-tops  kindled,  peak  and  height, 

With  a  hundred  answering  pyres. 
The  quick  youth  snatrhed  his  father's  sword, 

And  the  yeoman  rose  in  might ; 
And  the  aged  grandsire  nerved  him  there 

For  the  stormy  field  of  fight : 
And  the  hillmen  left  their  grass-grown  steeps, 

And  their  flocks  and  herds  unkept ; 


And  the  ploughshare  of  the  husbandman 
In  the  half-turned  furrow  slept. 

They  wore  no  steel-wrought  panoply, 
Nor  shield  nor  morion  gleamed ; 

Nor  the  flaunt  of  bannered  blazonry 
In  the  morning  sunlight  streamed. 

They  bore  no  marshalled,  firm  array — 

Like  a  torrent  on  they  poured, 
With  the  fire'ock,  and  the  mower's  scythe, 

And  the  old  forefathers'  sword. 
And  again  a  voice  went  sounding  on, 

And  the  bonfires  streamed  on  high ; 
And  the  hill-tops  rang  to  the  headlands  back, 

With  the  shout  of  victory  ! 

So  the  land  redeemed  her  heritage, 
By  the  free  hand  mailed  in  right, 

From  the  war-shod,  hireling  foeman's  tread, 
And  the  ruthless  grasp  of  might. 


THE  AXE  OF  THE  SETTLER. 

THOU  conqueror  of  the  wilderness, 

With  keen  and  bloodless  edge — 
Hail !  to  the  sturdy  artisan 

Who  welded  thee,  bold  wedge  ! 
Though  the  warrior  deem  the  weapon 

Fashioned  only  for  the  slave, 
Yet  the  settler  knows  thee  mightier 

Than  the  tried  Damascus  glaive. 
While  desolation  marketh 

The  course  of  foeman's  brand, 
Thy  strong  blow  scatters  plenty 

And  gladness  through  the  land: 
Thou  opest  the  soil  to  culture, 

To  the  sunlight  and  the  dew ; 
And  the  village  spire  thou  plantest 

Where  of  old  the  forest  grew. 

When  the  broad  sea  rolled  between  them 

And  their  own  far  native  land, 
Thou  wert  the  faithful  ally 

Of  the  hardy  pilgrim  band. 
They  bore  no  warlike  eagles, 

No  banners  swept  the  sky ; 
Nor  the  clarion,  like  a  tempest, 

Swelled  its  fearful  notes  on  high. 
But  the  ringing  wild  reechoed 

Thy  bold,  resistless  stroke, 
Where,  like  incense,  on  the  morning 

Went  up  the  cabin  smoke  : 
The  tall  oaks  bowed  before  thee, 

Like  reeds  before,  the  blast ; 
And  the  earth  put  forth  in  gladness 

Where  the  axe  in  triumph  passed. 
Then  hail !  thou  noble  conqueror, 

That,  when  tyranny  oppressed, 
Hewed  for  our  tathers  from  the  wild 

A  land  wherein  to  rest  : 
Hail,  to  the  power  that  giveth 

The  bounty  of  the  soil, 
And  freedom,  and  an  honored  name, 

To  the  hardy  sons  of  toil ! 


MARY   E.    STEBBINS. 


159 


A  THOUGHT  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 

How  beauteous  in  the  morning  light, 

Bright  glittering  in  her  pride, 
Trimountain,*  from  her  ancient  height, 

Looks  down  upon  the  tide  : 
The  fond  wind  woos  her  from  the  sea, 
And  ocean  clasps  her  lovingly, 

As  bridegroom  clasps  his  bride. 

And  out  across  the  waters  dark, 

Careering  on  their  way, 
Full  many  a  gal'ant,  home-bound  bark 

Conies  dashing  up  the  bay  : 
Their  pennons  float  on  morning's  gale, 
The  sun  ight  gilds  each  swelling  sail, 

And  flashes  on  the  spray. 

Not  thus  toward  fair  New  Eng'and's  coastj 

With  eager-hearted  crew, 
The  pil  rim-freighted,  tempest-tost, 

And  lonely  May  Flower  drew  : 
There  was  no  hand  outstretched  to  bless, 
No  we 'come  from  the  wilderness, 

To  cheer  her  hardy  few. 

But  onward  drove  the  winter  clouds 

Athwart  the  darkening  sky, 
And  hoarsely  through  the  stiffened  shrouds 

The  wind  swept  stormily  ; 
While  shrill  from  out  the  beetling  rock, 
'1  hat  seemed  the  billows'  force  to  mock, 

Broke  f  rth  the  sea-gull's  cry. 

God's  blessing  on  their  memories  ! 

Those  sturdy  men  and  bo'd, 
Who  girt  their  hearts  in  righteousness, 

Like  martyr  saints  of  o'd  ; 
And  mid  oppression  sternly  sought, 
To  hold  the  sacred  boon  of  Thought 

In  freedom  uncontrolled. 

They  left  the  old,  ancestral  hall 
The  creed  they  might  not  own ; 

They  left  home,  kindred,  fortune,  all — 
Left  glory  and  renown  : 

For  what  to  them  was  pride  of  birth, 

Or  vv'iat  to  them  the  pomp  of  earth, 
Who  sought  a  heavenly  crown  1 

Strong  armed  in  faith  they  crossed  the  flood  : 

Here,  mid  the  forest  fair, 
With  axe  and  mattock,  from  the  wood 

They  laid  broad  pastures  bare  ; 
And  with  the  ploughshare  turned  the  plain, 
And  p  anted  fields  of  yellow  grain 

And  built  their  dwc  lings  there. 

The  pilgrim  sires  !  — How  from  the  night 

Of  centuries  dim  and  vast, 
It  comes  o'er  every  hi  1  arid  height — 

That  watchword  from  the  past ! 
And  old  men's  pulses  quicker  bound, 
And  young  hearts  leap  to  hear  the  sound, 

As  at  the  trumpet's  blast. 

*  Boston —built  upon  three  hill? — was  originallj  named, 
by  tin-  early  settlorc,  "Trimountain." 


And  though  the  Pilgrim's  day  hath  set. 

Its  glorious  light  remains — • 
Its  beam  refulgent  lingers  yet 

O'er  all  New  England's  plains. 
Dear  land  !  though  doomed  from  thee  to  part, 
The  blood  that  warmed  the  Pilgrim's  heart 

Swells  proudly  in  my  veins  ! 

Go  to  the  islands  of  the  sea, 

Wherever  man  may  dare — 
Wherever  pagan  bows  the  knee, 

Or  Christian  bends  in  prayer — 
To  every  shore  that  bounds  the  main, 
Wherever  keel  on  strand  hath  lain — 

New  England's  sons  are  there. 

Toil  they  for  wealth  on  distant  coast, 

Roam  they  from  sea  to  sea  : 
Self-exiled,  still  her  children  boast 

Their  birthplace  'mong  the  free ; 
Or  seek  they  fame  on  glory's  track, 
Their  hearts,  like  mine,  turn  ever  back, 

New  England,  unto  thee  ! 


THE  CITY  BY  THE  SEA. 

CROWNED  with  the  hoar  of  centuries, 

There,  by  the  eternal  sea, 
High  on  her  misty  cape  she  sits, 

Like  an  eagle — fearless,  free. 

And  thus  in  olden  time  she  sat, 

On  that  morn  of  long  ago ; 
Mid  the  roar  of  Freedom's  armament, 

And  the  war-bolts  of  her  foe. 

Old  Time  hath  reared  her  pillared  walls, 

Her  domes  and  turrets  high : 
WTith  her  hundred  tall  and  tapering  aspires, 

All  flashing  to  the  sky. 

Shall  I  not  sing  of  thee,  beloved  1 

My  beautiful,  my  pride  ! 
Thou  that  towerest  in  thy  queenly  grace, 

By  the  tributary  tide. 

There,  swan-like  crestest  thou  the  waves 
That,  enamored,  round  thee  swell — 

Fairer  than  Aphrodit',  couched 
On  her  foam-wreathed  ocean  shell. 

Oh,  ever,  mid  this  restless  hum 

Resounding  from  the  street, 
Of  the  thronging,  hurrying  multitude, 

And  the  tread  of  stranger  feet — 

My  heart  turns  back  to  thee — mine  own  ! 

My  beautiful,  my  pride  ! 
W7ith  thought  of  thy  free  ocean  wind, 

And  the  clasping,  fond  old  tide — 

WTith  all  thy  kindred  household  smokes, 

Upwreathing  far  away ; 
And  the  merry  bells  that  pealed  as  now 

On  my  grandsire's  wedding-day  : 

To  those  green  graves  and  truthful  heart* 

Oh,  city  by  the  sea  ! 
My  heritage,  and  priceless  dower, 

My  beautiful,.  Jn  thee  ! 


MARY   E.    STEBBIXS. 


TUB  SUNFLOWER  TO   THE  SUN. 

HVMKTTTS'  hees  are  out  on  filmy  wing, 

Dim  Phosphor  slowly  fades  adown  the  west, 
And  Earth  awakes.     Shine  on  me,  oh  my  king! 

For  I  with  dew  am  laden  and  oppressed. 
Long  through  the  misty  clouds  of  morning  gray 

The  flowers  have  watched  to  hail  thee  from  yon 
Sad  Asphodel,  that  pines  to  meet  thy  ray,     [sea: 

And  Juno's  roses,  pale  for  love  of  thee. 
Perchance  thou  dalliest  with  the  Morning  Hour, 

Whose  blush  is  reddening  now  the  eastern  wave  ; 
Or  to  Lie  c.oud  for  ever  leav'st  thy  flower, 

Wiled  by  the  glance  white-footed  Thetis  gave. 

I  was  a  proud  Chaldean  monarch's  child  !* 

Euphrates'  waters  told  me  I  was  fair — 
And  thou,  Thessa'ia's  shepherd,  on  me  smiled, 

And  likened  to  thine  own  my  amber  hair. 
Thou  art  my  life — sustain er  of  my  spirit ! 

Leave  me  not  then  in  darkness  here  to  pine; 
Other  hearts  love  thee,  yet  do  they  inherit 

A  passionate  devotedness  like  mine  ] 

But  lo  !  thou  lift'st  thy  shield  o'er  yonder  tide : 

The  gray  clouds  fly  before  the  conquering  Sun  ; 
Thou  like  a  monarch  up  the  heavens  dost  ride 

And,  joy  !  thou  beamst  on  me,  celestial  one  ! 
On  me,  thy  worshipper,  thy  poor  Parsee, 

Whose  brow  adoring  types  thy  face  divine — 
God  of  my  burning  heart's  idolatry, 

Take  root  like  me,  or  give  me  life  like  thine ! 


THE  LAST  CHANT  OF  CORINNE. 

BY  that  mysterious  sympathy  which  chaineth 

For  evermore  my  spirit  unto  thine ; 
And  by  the  memory,  that  alone  remaineth, 

Of  that  sweet  hope  that  now  no  more  is  mine; 
And  by  the  love  my  trembling  heart  betrayeth, 

That,  born  of  thy  soft  gaze,  within  me  lies; 
As  the  lone  desert-bird,  the  Arab  sayeth, 

Warms  her  young  brood  to  life  with  her  fond  eyes : 
Hoar  me,  adored  one  !  though  the  world  divide  us, 

Though  never  more  my  hand  in  thine  be  pressed, 
Though  t  >  commingle  thought  be  here  denied  us, 

Till  our  high  hearts  shall  beat  themselves  to  rest ; 
Forget  me  not,  forget  me  not !  oh,  ever 

'J  his  one,  one  prayer,  my  spirit  pours  to  thee ; 
Ti!l  every  memory  from  earth  shall  sever, 

Remember,  oh,  beloved  !  remember  me  ! 
And  when  the  light  within  mine  eye  is  shaded, 

When  I,  o'erwearied,  sleep  the  sleep  profound, 
And  like  that  nymph  of  yore  who  drooped  and  faded, 

And  pined  for  love,  till  she  became  a  sound ; 
My  song,  perchance,  awhile  to  earth  remaining, 

Shall  come  in  murmured  melody  to  thee: 
Then  let  my  lyre's  deep,  passionate  complaining, 

Cry  to  thy  heart,  beloved—"  Remember  me  !" 

*('!y -la,  .hm-hrer  of  Orchnmus  kin-  of  Babvlon,  w 
l.e'«)v,.,l  l,y  Apollo;  but  the  eod  deserting  her  she  nii» 
away  «•„!,  c-  .nnnually  .azuu  on  tl,«  ,un.  and  was 

""• which  mr 


GREEN  PLACES  IN  THE  CITY. 

YE  fill  my  heart  with  gladness,  verdant  places, 

That  mid  the  city  greet  me  where  I  pass ; 
Methinks  I  see  of  angel-steps  the  traces 

Where'er  upon  my  pathway  springs  the  grass. 
I  pause  before  your  gates  at  early  morning, 

When  lies  the  sward  with  glittering  sheen  o'er- 

spread ; 
And  think  the  dewdrops  there  each  blade  adorning, 

Are  angels'  tears  for  mortal  frailty  shed. 

And  ye,  earth's  firstlings,  here  in  beauty  springing, 

Erst  in  your  cells  by  careful  Winter  nursed — 
And  to  the  morning  heaven  your  incense  flinging, 

As  at  His  smile  ye  forth  in  gladness  burst — 
How  do  ye  cheer  with  hope  my  lonely  hour, 

WThen  on  my  way  I  tread  despondingly, 
With  thought  that  He  who  careth  for  the  flower, 

Will,  in  his  mercy,  still  remember  me  ! 

Breath  of  our  nostrils — Thou !  whose  love  embraces, 

Whose  light  shall  never  from  our  souls  depart, 
Beneath  thy  touch  hath  sprung  a  green  oasis 

Amid  the  arid  desert  of  my  heart. 
Thy  sun  and  rain  call  forth  the  bud  of  promise, 

And  with  fresh  leaves  in  spring-time  deck  the  tree ; 
That  where  man's  hand  hath  shut  out  Nature  from 

We,  by  these  glimpses,  may  remember  Thee  !  [us, 


CAMEOS. 

HEKCULES    AXD    OMPHALE. 

RECLINED  enervate  on  the  couch  of  ease, 
No  more  he  pants  for  deeds  of  high  emprise ; 
For  Pleasure  holds  in  soft,  voluptuous  ties 

Enthralled,  great  Jove-descended  Hercules. 

The  hand  that  bound  the  Erymanthian  boar, 
Hesperia's  dragon  slew,  with  bold  intent — 
That  from  his  quivering  side  in  triumph  rent 

The  skin  the  Cieonsean  lion  wore, 

Holds  forth  the  goblet — while  the  Lydian  queen, 
Rob'd  like  a  nymph, her  browenvvreath'd  with  vine, 
Lifts  high  the  amphora,  brimmed  with  rosy  wine, 

Arid  pours  the  draught  the  crowned  cup  within. 

And  thus  the  soul,  abased  to  sensual  sway, 

Its  worth  forsakes — its  might  forgoes  for  aye. 


TITTOS  CHATXED  IX  TARTARUS. 

OH,  wondrous  marvel  of  the  sculptor's  art! 
Whatcumiinghand  hath  cull'd  thee  from  themine. 
And  carved  thee  into  life,  with  skill  divine ! 
How  claims  in  thee  Humanity  a  part — 
Seems  from  the  gem  the  form  enchained  to  start, 
While  thus  with  fiery  eye,  and  outspread  wings, 
The  ruthless  vulture  to  his  victim  clings, 
With  whetted  beak  deep  in  the  quivering  heart. 
Oh,  thou  embodied  meaning,  master-wrought ! 
Thus  taught  the  sage,  how,  sunk  in  crime  and  sin, 
The  soul  a  prey  to  conscience,  writhes  within 
Its  fleshly  bonds  enslaved  :  thus  ever,  Thought, 
The  breast's  keen  torturer,  remorseful  tears 
At  life,  the  hell  whose  chain  the  soul  in  anguish 
wears ! 


MARY    E.    STEBBIXS. 


1G1 


A  YARN. 

u'Tis  Saturday  night,  and  our  watch  be^w — 
What  heed  we,  boys,  how  the  breezes  blow, 
While  our  cans  are  brimmed  with  the  spark' ing  flow: 
Come,  Jack  —  uncoil,  as  we  pass  the  grog, 
And  spin  us  a  yarn  from  memory's  log." 

Jack's  brawny  chest  like  the  broad  sea  heaved, 
While  his  loving  lip  to  the  beaker  cleaved; 
And  he  drew  his  tarred  and  well-saved  sleeve 
Across  his  mouth,  as  he  drained  the  can, 
And  thus  to  his  listening  mates  began  : 

« When  I  sailed  a  boy.  in  the  schooner  Mike, 
No  bigger,  I  trow,  than  a  marlinspike — 
But  I've  to'd  ye  the  tale  ere  now,  belike  ?" 
"Go  on  !"  each  voice  reechoed, 
And  the  tar  thrice  hemmed,  and  thus  he  said  : 

"A  stanch-built  craft  as  the  waves  e'er  bore — 
We  had  loosed  our  sails  for  home  once  more, 
Freighted  full  deep  from  Labrador, 
When  a  cloud  one  night  rose  on  our  lee, 
That  the  heart  of  the  stoutest  quailed  to  see. 

And  voices  wild  with  the  winds  were  blent, 
As  our  bark  her  prow  to  the  waters  bent ; 
And  the  seamen  muttered  their  discontent — 
Muttered  and  nodded  ominously — 
But  the  mate,  right  carelessly  whistled  he. 

1  Our  bark  may  never  outride  the  ga1^ — 

'Tis  a  pitiless  night !  the  pattering  hail 

Hath  coated  each  spar  as  't  were  in  mail ; 

And  our  sails  are  riven  before  the  breeze, 

While  our  cordage  and  shrouds  into  icicles  freeze !' 

Thus  spake  the  skipper  beside  the  mast, 
While  the  arrowy  s  eet  fell  thick  and  fast ; 
And  our  bark  drove  onward  before  the  blast 
That  goaded  the  waves,  till  the  angry  main 
Rose  up  and  strove  with  the  hurricane. 

Up  spake  the  mate,  and  his  tone  was  gay — 
'Shall  we  at  this  hour  to  fear  give  way  ] 
We  must  labor,  in  sooth,  as  well  as  pray  : 
Out,  shipmates,  and  grapple  home  yonder  sail, 
That  flutters  in  ribands  before  the  gale  !' 

Loud  swelled  the  tempest,  and  rose  the  shriek — 
'  Save,  save  !  we  are  sinking  ! — A  leak  !  a  leak  !' 
And  the  hale  old  skipper's  tawny  cheek 
Was  cold,  as  'twere  sculptured  in  marble  there, 
And  white  as  the  foam,  or  his  own  white  hair. 

The  wind  piped  shrilly,  the  wind  piped  loud — 
It  shrieked  'mong  the  cordage,  it  howled  in  the 

shroud  ; 

And  the  sleet  fell  thick  from  the  cold,  dun  cloud  : 
But  hi_rh  over  all,  in  tones  of  glee, 
The  voice  of  the  mate  rang  cheerily — 

'  Now,  men,  for  your  wives'  and  your  sweethearts' 

sakes  ! 

Choer,  messmates,  cheer ! — quick !  man  the  brakes ! 
We'll  gain  on  the  leak  ere  the  skipper  wakes; 
And  though  our  peril  your  hearts  appal, 
Ere   dawns   the    morrow    we  '11    laugh    at   the 

squall.' 


He  railed  at  the  tempest,  he  laughed  at  its  threats, 
He  played  with  his  fingers  like  castanets: 
Yet  think  not  that  he,  in  his  mirth,  forgets 
That  the  plank  he  is  riding  this  hour  at  sea, 
May  launch  him  the  next  to  eternity  ! 

The  white-haired  skipper  turned  away, 
And  lifted  his  hands,  as  it  were  to  pray ; 
But  his  look  spoke  plainly  as  look  could  say, 
The  boastful  thought  of  the  Pharisee — 
'  Thank  God,  I  'm  not  hardened  as  others  be  !' 

But  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  waves  sank  low, 
And  the  winds,  o'erwearied,  forbore  to  blow ; 
And  our  bark  lay  there  in  the  golden  glow — 
Flashing  she  lay  in  the  bright  sunshine, 
An  ice-sheathed  hulk  on  the  cold,  still  brine. 

Well,  shipmates,  my  yarn  is  almost  spun — 
The  cold  and  the  tempest  their  work  had  done, 
And  I  was  the  last,  lone,  living  one, 
Clinging,  benumbed,  to  that  wave-girt  wreck, 
WThile  the  dead  around  me  bestrewed  the  deck. 

Yea,  the  dead  were  round  me  every  whet  e  ! 
The  skipper  gray,  in  the  sunlight  there, 
Still  lifted  his  paralyzed  hands  in  prayer ;    [leapt, 
And  the  mate,  whose  tones  through  the  darkness 
In  the  silent  hush  of  the  morning,  slept. 

Oh,  bravely  he  perished  who  sought  to  save 
Our  storm-tossed  bark  from  the  pitiless  wave, 
And  her  crew  from  a  yawning  and  fathomless  grave : 
Crying, '  Messmates  cheer !'  with  a  bright,glad  smile, 
And  praying,  '  Be  merciful,  God  !'  the  while. 

True  to  his  trust,  to  his  last  chill  gasp, 
The  helm  lay  clutched  in  his  stiff,  cold  grasp — 
You  might  scarcely  in  death  undo  the  clasp : 
And  his  crisp,  brown  locks  were  dank  and  thin, 
And  the  icicles  hung  from  his  bearded  chin. 

My  timbers  have  weathered,  since,  many  a  gale 
And  when  life's  tempests  this  hulk  assail, 
And  the  binnacle  lamp  in  my  breast  burns  pale, 
'  Cheer,  messmates,  cheer ''  to  my  heart  I  say, 
<  We  must  labor,  in  sooth,  as  well  as  pray  !'  " 


IMITATION  OF  SAPPHO. 

IF  to  repeat  thy  name  when  none  may  hear  me, 
To  find  thy  thought  with  all  my  thoughts  inwove, 

To  languish  where  thou  'rt  not — to  sigh  when  neai 
Oh,  if  this  be  to  love  thee,  1  do  love  !  [thee : 

If  when  thou  utterest  low  words  of  greeting, 
To  feel  through  every  vein  the  torrent  pour; 

Then  back  again  the  hot  tide  swift  retreating, 
Leave  me  all  powerless,  silent  as  before  : 

If  to  list  breathless  to  thine  accents  falling, 
Almost  to  pain,  upon  my  eager  ear — 

And  fondly  when  alone  to  be  recalling 
The  words  that  I  would  die  again  to  hear : 

If  'neath  thy  glance  my  heart  all  strength  forsaking, 
Pant  in  my  breast  as'pants  the  frighted  dove 

If  to  think  on  thee  ever,  keeping — waking- 
Oh !  if  this  be  to  love  thee.  I  do  love  ' 


162 


MARY   E.    STEBBIXS. 


LOVE'S  PLEADING. 

SPKAK  tender  words,  mine  own  beloved,  to  me — 

Call  me  thy  lily — thy  imperial  one, 
That,  like  the  Persian,  breathes  adoringly 

Its  train-ant  worship  ever  to  the  sun. 

Speak  tender  words,  lest  doubt  with  me  prevail  : 

Call  me  thy  rose — thy  queen  rose  !  throned  apart, 
That  all  unheedful  of  the  nightingale, 

Fo'ds  close  the  dew  within  her  burning  heart. 
For  thou  'rt  the  sun  that  makes  my  heaven  fair, 

Thy  love,  the  blest  dew  that  sustains  me  here; 
A  IK!  like  the  plant  that  hath  its  root  in  air, 

I  only  live  within  thy  atmosphere. 

L  -ok  on  me  with  those  soul-illumined  eyes, 

And  murmur  low  in  love's  entrancing  tone — 
Methinks  the  angel-lute  of  paradise 

Had  never  voice  so  thri  ling  as  thine  own  ! 
Say  I  am  dearer  to  thee  than  renown, 

My  praise  more  treasured  than  the  world's  acclaim: 
Ca:l  me  thy  laure' — thy  victorious  crown, 

Wreathed  in  unfading  g'ory  round  thy  name. 
Breathe  low  to  me  each  pure,  enraptured  thought, 

While  thus  thy  arms  my  trusting  heart  entwine  : 
Call  me  by  all  fond  meanings  love  hath  wrought, 

But  oh,  Ian  this,  ever  call  me  thine  ! 


THE  HEARTH  OF  HOME. 

THE  storm  around  my  dwelling  sweeps, 
And  while  the  boughs  it  fiercely  reaps, 
My  heart  within  a  vigil  keeps, 

The  warm  and  cheering  hearth  beside; 
And  as  I  mark  the  kind. ing  glow 
Bright  y  o'er  a'l  its  radiance  throw, 
Back  to  the  years  my  memories  flow, 

When  Rome  sat  or,  her  hills  in  pride  ; 
When'  every  stream,  and  grove,  and  tree, 
And  fountain,  had  its  deity. 

The  hearth  was  then,  'mong  low  and  great, 

Unto  the  Lares  consecrate  : 

The  youth,  arrived  to  man's  estate, 

There  offered  up  his  golden  heart ; 
Thither,  when  overwhelmed  with  dread, 
The  stranger  still  for  refuge  fled — 
Was  kindly  cheered,  and  warmed,  and  fed, 

Till  he  might  fearless  thence  depart: 
And  there  the  slave,  a  slave  no  more, 
Hung  reverent  up  the  chain  he  wore. 
Full  many  a  change  the  hearth  hath  known; 
The  Druid  fire,  the  curfew's  tone, 
The  log  that  bright  at  yule-tide  shone, 

The  merry  sports  of  Hallow-e'en: 
Yft  sti.l  where'er  a  home  is  found, 
Gather  the  warm  affections  round, 
And  there  the  notes  of  mirth  resound 

The  voice  of  wisdom  heard  between  : 
And  welcomed  there  with  words  of  grace, 
The  stranger  finds  a  resting  place. 
Oh,  wheresoe'er  our  feet  may  roam, 
Still  sacred  is  the  hearth  of  home ; 


Whether  beneath  the  princely  dome, 

Or  peasant's  lowly  roof  it  be, 
For  home  the  wanderer  ever  yearns ; 
Backward  to  where  its  hearth-fire  burns, 
Like  to  the  wife  of  old,  he  turns 

Fondly  the  eyes  of  memory  : 
Back  where  his  heart  he  offered  first — 
Back  where  his  fair,  young  hopes  he  nursed. 

My  humble  hearth  though  all  disdain, 
Here  may  I  cast  aside  the  chain 
The  world  hath  coldly  on  me  lain — 

Here  to  my  Lares  offer  up 
The  warm  prayer  of  a  grateful  heart : 
Thou  that  my  household  Guardian  art, 
That  dost  to  me  thine  aid  impart, 

And  with  thy  mercy  fill'st  my  cup — 
Strengthen  the  hope  within  my  soul, 
Till  I  in  faith  may  reach  the  goal ! 


THE  LAUNCH. 

A  SOUND  through  old  Trimountain  went, 

A  voice  to  great  and  small, 
That  told  of  feast  and  merriment, 

And  welcome  kind  to  all : 
And  there  was  gathering  in  the  hall, 

And  gathering  on  the  strand  ; 
And  many  a  heart  beat  anxiously 

That  morning,  on  the  sand  : 

For  'tis  the  morn  when  ocean  tide, 

An  hundred  tongues  record, 
Shall  wed  the  daughter  of  the  oak — 

The  mighty  forest  lord. 

They  dressed  the  bride  in  streamers  gay, 

Her  beauty  to  enhance ; 
And  o'er  her  hung  Columbia's  stars, 

And  the  tri-fold  flag  of  France ; 
They  decked  her  prow  with  rare  device 

With  wealth  of  carving  good  ; 
And  they  girt  her  with  a  golden  zone, 

The  maiden  of  the  wood. 

The  gay  tones  of  the  artisan 

Fell  lightly  on  the  ear, 
And  sound  of  vigorous  hammer  stroke 

Rang  loudly  out  and  clear ; 
And  stout  arms  swayed  the  ponderous  sledge, 

While  a  shout  the  hills  awoke, 
As  forth  to  meet  the  bridegroom  flood 

Swept  the  daughter  of  the  oak. 

And  bending  to  the  jewelled  spray 

That  rose  her  step  to  greet, 
She  dashed  aside  the  vesty  waves 

That  gathered  round  her  feet; 
And  down  her  path  right  gracefully, 

The  queenly  maiden  pressed, 
Till  the  royal  ocean  clasped  her  form 

To  his  broad  and  heaving  breast. 

God  guide  thee  o'er  the  trackless  deep, 

My  brother — brave  and  true  ; 
God  speed  the  good  Damascus  well, 

And  shield  her  daring  crew  ! 


MARY   E.    STEBBIXS. 


163 


THE  ODE  OF  HAROLD  THE  VALIANT. 

I  Min  the  hills  was  horn, 

Where  the  skilled  bowmen 
Send,  with  unerring  shaft, 

Death  to  the  foemen. 
But  I  love  to  steer  my  bark — 

To  fear  a  stranger — 
Over  the  Maelstrom's  edge, 

Daring  the  danger ; 
And  where  the  mariner 

Paleth  affrighted, 
Over  the  sunken  rocks 
I  dash  on  delighted. 

The  far  waters  know  my  keel — 

No  tide  restrains  me  ; 
But  ah  !  a  Russian  maid 
Coldly  disdains  me. 

Once  to  Sicilia's  isle 

Voyaged  T,  unfearing: 
Conflict  was  on  my  prow, 

Glory  was  steering. 
Where  fled  the  stranger-ship 

Wildly  before  me, 
Down,  like  the  hungry  hawk, 

My  vessel  bore  me  ; 
We  carved  on  the  craven's  deck 

The  red  runes  of  slaughter: 
When  my  bird  whets  her  beak, 

Our  spears  give  no  quarter ! 

The  far  waters  know  my  keel,  &c. 

Countless,  like  spears  of  grain, 

Were  the  warriors  of  Drontheim, 
When  like  the  hurricane 

I  swept  down  upon  them ! 
Like  chaff  beneath  the  flail 

They  fell  in  their  numbers — 
Their  king  with  the  golden  hair 

I  sent  to  his  slumbers. 

I  love  the  combat  fierce,  &c. 

Once  o'er  the  Baltic  sea 

Swift  we  were  dashing  ; 
Bright  on  our  twenty  spears 

Sunlight  was  flashing ; 
When  through  the  Skagerack 

The  storm-wind  was  driven, 
And  from  our  bending  mast 

The  broad  sail  was  riven : 
Then,  while  the  angry  brine 

Foamed  like  a  flagon, 
Brim  full  the  yesty  rhime 

Filled  our  brown  dragon; 
But  I,  with  sinewy  hand, 

Strengthened  in  slaughter, 
Forth  from  the  straining  ship 

Bailed  the  dun  water : 

I  love  the  combat  fierce,  <fec 

Firmly  I  curb  my  steed, 

As  e'er  Thracian  horseman  ; 

My  hand  throws  the  javelin  true, 
Pride  of  the  Norseman ; 

And  the  bold  skaiter  marks, 
While  his  lips  quiver, 


Where  o'er  the  bending  ice 

I  skim  the  strong  river. 
Forth  to  my  rapid  oar 

The  boat  swiftly  springeth — 
Springs  like  the  mettled  steed 
When  the  spur  stingeth. 
Valiant  I  am  in  fight, 

No  fear  restrains  me,  &c, 

Saith  she,  the  maiden  fair, 

The  Norsemen  are  cravens? 
I  in  the  Southland  gave 

A  feast  to  the  ravens ! 
Green  lay  the  sward  outspread, 

The  bright  sun  was  o'er  us, 
When  the  strong  fighting  men 

Rushed  down  before  us. 
Midway  to  meet  the  shock 

My  fleet  courser  bore  me, 
And  like  Thor's  hammer  crashed 

My  strong  hand  before  me  ! 
Left  we  their  maids  in  tears, 

Their  city  in  embers: 
The  sound  of  the  Viking's  spears 

The  Southland  remembers ! 
I  love  the  combat  fierce,  &c. 

LAY. 

A  LAY  of  love !  ask  yonder  sea 

For  wealth  its  waves  have  closed  upon — 
A  song  from  stern  Thermopylae — 
A  battle-shout  from  Marathon  ! 
Look  on  my  brow  !     Reveals  it  naught  1 

It  hideth  deep  rememberings, 
Enduring  as  the  records  wrought 

Within  the  tombs  of  Egypt's  kings! 
Take  thou  the  harp — I  may  not  sing — 

Awake  the  Teian  lay  divine, 
Till  fire  from  every  glowing  string 
Shall  mingle  with  the  flashing  wine! 

The  Theban  lyre  but  to  the  sun 

Gave  forth  at  morn  its  answering  tone : 
So  mine  but  echoed  when  the  one, 

One  sunlit  glance  was  o'er  it  thrown. 
The  Memnon  sounds  no  more !  my  lyre — 

A  veil  upon  thy  strings  is  flung: 
I  may  not  wake  the  chords  of  fire — 
The  words  that  burn  upon  my  tongue. 
Fill  high  the  cup !  I  may  not  sing — 

My  hands  the  crowning  buds  will  twine 
Pour — till  the  wreath  I  o'er  it  fling 
Shall  mingle  with  the  rosy  wine. 

No  lay  of  love !    the  lava-stream 

Hath  left  its  trace  on  heart  and  brain  ! 
No  more — no  more  !  the  maddening  theme 

Will  wake  the  slumbering  fires  again  ! 
Fling  back  the  shroud  on  buried  years — 

Hail,  to  the  ever-blooming  hours! 
We'll  fill  Time's  glass  with  ruby  tears, 

And  twine  his  bald,  old  brow  with  flowers! 
Fill  high  !  fill  high  !  I  may  not  sing — 

Strike  forth  the  Teian  lay  divine, 
Till  fire  from  every  glowing  string 
Shall  mingle  with  the  flashing  wine! 


SUSAN   R.   A.    BARNES. 


Miss  SUSAN  REBECCA  AYER,  now  Mrs. 
BARNES,  is  a  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Richard 
H.  Aver,  of  the  city  of  Manchester,  in  New 
Hampshire.  Her  family  has  furnished  sev 
eral  names  distinguished  in  public  affairs  and 
in  literature.  Mr.  John  Greene,  the  banker, 
of  Paris,  is  her  maternal  uncle,  and  the  ac 
complished  scholar  and  writer,  Mr.  Nathan 
iel  Greene,  of  Boston,  is  nearly  related  to  her. 


Her  associations  have  therefore  been  preemi 
nently  favorable  to  the  cultivation  of  her  abil 
ities.  Her  poems  are  marked  by  many  feli 
cities  of  expression ;  and  they  frequently  cc  m- 
bine  a  masculine  vigor  of  style  with  tender 
ness  and  a  passionate  earnestness  of  feeling. 
Mrs.  Barnes  now  resides  with  her  father,  in 
Manchester.  Her  native  place  is  Hooksett, 
in  the  same  state. 


IMALEE: 

AN  EASTERN  LEGEND 

SHRINED  in  the  bosom  of  the  Indian  sea, 
Where  ceaseless  Summer  smiles  perpetually, 
A  festal  glory  o'er  the  tropic  thrown, 
To  other  lands  and  other  climes  unknown — 
By  friends  untrodden,  un profaned  by  foes, 
The  bright  isle  of  the  Indian  god  arose. 
There  waving  mid  a  wilderness  of  green, 
The  palm-tree  spread  its  leaf  of  glossy  sheen  ; 
The  tamarind  blossom  floating  on  the  gale, 
Bore  breathing  odors  to  the  passing  sail; 
The  banyan's  broad,  interminable  shade 
A  bower  of  bright,  perennial  beauty  made ; 
And  from  the  rock's  deep  cleft,  by  Nature  nurst, 
The  tropic's  floral  wealth  in  sp'endor  burst. 
It  seemed  that  Nature,  revelling  in  bloom, 
Here  claimed  exemption  from  the  general  doom  : 
Perpetual  verdure  o'er  the  seasons  reigned, 
Perpetual  beauty  every  sense  enchained  ; 
And  here  the  Indian,  Nature's  untaught  child, 
The  simple  savage  of  a  sunny  wild, 
Deemed  that  the  spirit  whom  he  worshipped  dwelt, 
And  here  at  eve  in  adoration  knelt 
The  Indian  maiden — sacred  to  the  power 
So  deeply  reverenced,  day's  departing  hour 

The  shadows  deepen  o'er  the  summer  sea, 
The  breeze  is  up — the  ripple  murmurs  free ; 
A  single  sail  in  the  dim  distance  holds 
Its  onward  course,  though  twilight's  darkening  folds, 
Descending,  deepening,  veil  the  lessening  prow; 
And  now  it  nears  the  sacred  isle,  and  now 
A  single,  solitary  form  is  seen — 
A  fearless  foot  hath  pressed  the  yielding  green  ! — 
And  Ima!ee,  the  dark-browed  Indian  maid, 
At  this  dim  hour,  unshrinking,  undismayed, 
With  step  that  borrows  firmness  from  despair — • 
With  eye  that  tells  what  woman's  soul  will  dare, 
When  wars  the  spirit  in  its  prisoned  home, 
Till  Keason  yielding,  trembles  on  her  throne — 
Hath  sought  the  shrine,  unmindful  of  the  hour, 
To  hold  dark  commune  with  an  unknown  power. 


Around,  a  paradise  of  bloom  is  shed ; 
The  cocoa  breathes  its  blossoms  o'er  her  head ; 
The  scarlet  bombex  clusters  at  her  feet, 
And  bloom  and  fragrance  unregarded  meet ; 
While  heavy  with  the  glittering  dews  of  night, 
The  leaf  is  greener  and  the  flower  more  bright. 

The  maiden  hung  her  wreath  upon  the  shrine, 
An  offering  to  the  power  she  deemed  divine, 
When  soft  and  low  a  breathing  whisper  came 
That  thrilled  through  every  fibre  of  her  frame; 
That  spirit-voice  all  tremulous  she  hears — 
"  Within  thy  wreath  a  withered  rose  appears !" 

"  There  is — there  is — fit  emblem  of  my  heart ; 
Oh,  Power  benign  !  thine  influence  impart 
To  raise,  restore,  and  renovate  for  me, 
That  withered  flower,  or  bid  its  memory  flee ! 
I  flung  it  from  me  in  an  idle  hour, 
In  the  first  dream  of  conscious  maiden  power : 
That  dream  is  o'er,  and  I  have  lived  to  wake, 
To  wish  my  bursting  heart  indeed  might  break !" 

Again  that  voice  is  stealing  on  her  ear, 
That  spirit-voice,  but  not  in  tones  of  fear ; 
It  murmurs  in  a  soft,  familiar  tone, 
It  thrills  he;  heart,  but  why,  she  dares  not  own : 
Her  head  is  raised,  her  cheek  like  sunset  glows ; 
Again  it  breathes,  "  Wilt  thou  restore  the.  rose  T* 
And  mid  the  waving  foliage's  deepening  green 
A  well  remembered  form  is  dimly  seen. 

That  eve  it  had  been  hers  unmoved  to  mark 
The  shadows  deepening  round  her  lonely  bark ; 
A  darker  shadow  brooded  o'er  her  rest, 
A  deeper  desolation  veiled  her  breast ; 
And  she  who  had  in  tearless  sadness  sought 
The  haunted  shade  where  godsand  demons  wrought, 
And  there  unmoved  her  fearful  vigil  kept, 
Now  bowed  her  head,  and  like  an  infant  wept. 

Abroad  once  more  upon  the  starlit  sea, 
The  sounding  surge  is  musical  to  thee ; 
The  deepening  shadows  lose  their  ghastly  gloom, 
The  distant  shades  are  redolent  of  bloom  ; 
The  sky  is  cloudless  and  the  air  is  balm, 
The  tropic  night's  pecu'iar,  breathing  calm — ' 
Bright  Irnalee,  'tis  thine  once  more  to  own, 
Abroad  upon  the  wave — BUT  XOT  ALOXE. 
164 


SUSAN    R.   A.   BARNES. 


J65 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  CROSS. 

IT  must  have  been  a  glorious  sight, 

And  one  which  to  behold 
Would  stir  the  sternest  spirit's  depths, 

Those  armed  bands  of  old  ! 
The  glittering  panoply  of  proof, 

The  helmet  and  the  shield, 
The  spear  and  ponderous  battle-axe, 

Which  only  they  could  wield  ! 

The  knightly  daring — high  resolve, 

Engraven  on  each  brow, 
The  manly  form  of  iron  mould — 

Methinks  I  see  them  now, 
As  fresh  and  vividly  they  rise, 

To  bid  the  bosom  glow, 
As  when  they  burst  upon  the  eye 

A  thousand  years  ago  ! 

And  'neath  that  burning  Syrian  sun, 

Far  as  the  eye  can  measure, 
Prepared  to  pour  like  water  forth 

Their  life-blood  and  their  treasure — 
Those  banded  legions  pressing  on, 

The  red-cross  banner  flying, 
And  thousands  seeking  'neath  that  sign 

The  glorious  need  of  dying! 

Oh  holy,  pure,  and  heartfelt  zeal, 

Misguided  though  thou  be, 
There  still  is  something  heavenly  bright 

And  beautiful  in  thee  ! 
And  He  who  judges  not  as  man, 

'Tis  his  alone  to  try  thee, 
And  thou  wilt  meet  that  grace  from  him 

Thy  brother  would  deny  thee. 

Assailed  without,  begirt  within 

By  those  who  hate  and  fear  thee, 
Though  Danger  lurks  within  thy  path, 

And  Death  is  busy  near  thee — 
As  reckless  of  continual  toil 

As  if  that  frame  were  iron, 
A  glorious  destiny  is  thine, 

Undaunted  Coeur  de  Lion  ! 

God  speed  thee  on  thine  enterprise, 

Lord  of  the  lion  heart ; 
Go — mid  "  the  rapture  of  the  strife" 

Enact  thy  princely  part : 
Do  battle  with  the  infidel, 

And  smite  his  haughty  brow, 
And  plant  the  standard  of  the  cross 

Where  waves  the  crescent  now  ! 

The  blood  of  the  Plantagenets 

Is  bounding  in  thy  veins, 
The  soul  of  the  Plantagenets 

Within  thy  bosom  reigns ; 
And  deeds  that  breathe  of  future  fame, 

And  deathless  meed  assign, 
Desires  not  conquest  e'en  can  tame, 

And  beauty's  smile,  are  thine ! 

The  story  of  thy  knightly  faith, 

As  ages  roll  along, 
Shall  brighten  o'er  the  poet's  page, 

And  wake  the  minstrel's  song : 


Ay — to  the  tale  of  high  emprise, 
The  daring  deed  and  bold, 

The  spirit  leaps  as  wildly  now 
As  in  those  davs  of  old  ! 


PENITENCE. 

THOU  art  not  penitent,  although 

There  rages  in  thy  brain 
A  scorching  madness  undefined, 

Whose  very  breath  is  flame. 
Thou  art  not  penitent :  alas  ! 

The  world  hath  wounded  thee, 
And  thou  in  anguish  ill  concealed 

Art  fain  to  turn  and  flee. 

Thou  hast  in  Pleasure's  maddening  cup — 

That  cup  too  deeply  quaffed — 
The  pearl  of  thy  existence  thrown, 

And  drained  it  at  a  draught ! 
Unmourned  and  unrepressed,  behold 

Life's  energies  decline — 
Worn,  wasted  in  unholy  fires : 

And  what  reward  is  thine  ! 

The  world,  once  worshipped,  spurns  thee  now 

Rejects  thee — casts  thee  hence — 
And  thou  art  nursing  injured  pride, 

And  dreamst  of  penitence  ! 
Let  but  the  temptress  smile  again, 

Thou  wouldst  her  influence  own, 
Forgetting  in  that  charmed  embrace 

The  evil  thou  hadst  known. 

Thou  bringest  not  a  broken  heart 

To  offer  at  the  throne 
Of  Him  who  has  in  love  declared 

The  broken  heart  his  own. 
Thy  heart  is  hard — thou  who  hast  long 

The  path  of  error  trod  ; 
Deemst  thou  that  weak  and  wicked  thing 

An  offering  meet  for  God  1 
Go,  if  thou  canst,  when  Flattery's  voice 

Is  stealing  on  thine  ear 
In  tones  so  sweet,  an  angel  might, 

Forgetting,  turn  to  hear — 
Go,  rather  list  the  voice  within, 

And  bow  beneath  the  rod, 
And  recognise  with  soul  subdued 

The  chastening  of  thy  God ! 
Go  to  the  wretch  who  may  have  wrought 

Irreparable  ill, 
To  thee,  or  those  more  deeply  dear, 

More  fondly  cherished  still ; 
Approach,  though  it  may  seem  like  death 

To  look  on  him,  and  live, 
And  while  Revenge  is  wooing  thee, 

Say  firmly,  "  I  forgive." 
Go,  when  to  deep  idolatry 

Thy  heart  is  darkly  prone — 
That  heart  whose  steadfast  hope  should  still 

Be  fixed  on  God  alone  : 
Go,  rend  the  image  from  its  shrine, 

And  hurl  the  idol  hence, 
And  bring  it  bleeding  back  to  Him  r 

This — this  is  penitence  I 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 

(Born  1813). 


MRS,  WHITMAN  is  a  native  of  Providence. 
Her  father.,  the  late  Mr.  Nicholas  Power,  a 
merchant  of  that  city,  was  a  lineal  descend 
ant  of  that  Nicholas  Power  who  accompanied 
Roger  Williams  in  his  banishment,  and  as 
sisted  him  in  establishing  the  first  of  govern 
ments  which  claimed  no  authority  over  the 
conscience.  The  founder  of  her  family  in 
Rhode  Island  appears  to  have  been  worthy  of 
his  fraternity  with  the  new  Baptist,  preaching 
the  gospel  of  liberty  in  the  wilderness,  and  the 
Massachusetts  General  Court  made  him  feel 
the  weight  of  its  displeasure  for  advancing  so 
much  faster  than  itself  in  civilization. 

Miss  Power  married  at  an  early  age  Mr. 
John  Winslow  Whitman,  a  son  of  Mr.  Kil- 
born  Whitman,  an  eminent  citizen  of  Mas 
sachusetts,  and  a  descendant  from  Edward 
WinslovA,  the  first  governor  of  Plymouth. 
Mr.  Whitman's  childhood  was  passed  with 
his  grandfather,  Dr.  Isaac  Winslow,  upon 
the  only  estate  which  at  that  time  remained 
by  uninterrupted  transmission  in  the  families 
of  the  Pilgrims.  Mrs.  Whitman  has  pub 
lished  an  interesting  account  of  a  visit  to  the 
old  mansion,  soon  after  the  death  of  Dr.  Wins- 
low,  while  it  was  still  graced  with  the  rich 
ly-carved  oaken  chairs  and  massive  tables 
brought  over  in  the  May  Flower,  and  its  ven 
erable  walls  were  decorated  with  the  family 
portraits,  that  have  since  been  deposited  in 
the  halls  of  the  Antiquarian  and  Historical 
Societies  of  Massachusetts. 

Mr.  Whitman  was  graduated  at  Brown 
University,  and,  after  completing  his  studies 
in  the  law,  began  to  practise  in  the  courts  of 
Boston,  where  his  fine  abilities  gave  promise 
of  a  brilliant  career  ;  but  a  lingering  illness 
s  )on  compelled  him  to  abandon  his  profes 
sion,  and  after  a  brief  union  his  wife  re 
turned,  a  widow,  to  the  house  of  her  mother, 
iu  her  native  city. 

From  this  period  she  has  devoted  her  time 
chiefly  to  literary  studies.  To  a  knowledge 
of  the  best  English  authors  she  has  added  a 
familiarity  with  the  languages  and  literatures 
of  (lermany,  Italy,  and  France.  Shehasgiv- 
nn  her  most  loving  attention  to  the  poets, 
critic?  and  philosophers,  of  the  first  of  these 


countries,  who  have  in  a  larger  degree  tha 
any  others  formed  her  own  tastes  and  opin 
ions.  These  are  exhibited  in  several  striking 
and  brilliant  papers  in  the  periodicals ;  and 
particularly  in  her  article  on  Goethe's  Con 
versations  with  Eckermann,  in  the  Boston 
Quarterly  Review,  for  January,  1840,  and  in 
her  notice  of  Emerson's  Essays,  in  the  Dem 
ocratic  Review,  for  June,  1845. 

Of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Whitman,  one  enti 
tied  Hours  of  Life  contains  probably  the  finest 
passages,  though  it  is  perhaps  somewhat  too 
mystical  and  metaphysical  to  be  very  popular. 
This  has  not  been  printed.  The  most  care 
fully  elaborated  of  her  published  poems  are 
three  Fairy  Ballads  — The  Golden  Ball,  The 
Sleeping  Beauty,  and  Cinderilla — in  the  com 
position  of  which  she  has  been  assisted  by 
her  sister,  Miss  Anna  Marsh  Power.  To 
these  are  prefixed  the  lines  of  Burns: 

"  Full  oft  the  Muse,  as  frugal  housewives  do, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  us  wool  as  new." 

Nothingcan  be  finer  in  its  way  than  the  Sleep 
ing  Beauty  of  Tennyson,  but  that  brilliant  po 
et  has  given  only  an  episode  of  the  beautiful 
legend,  which  is  here  presented  with  so  much 
clearness  of  narrative,  propriety  of  illustra 
tion,  and  splendor  of  coloring.  Cinderilla  is 
longer  than  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  to  the  som 
bre  character  of  which  its  polished  and  glow 
ing  vivacity  presents  a  pleasing  contrast. 

Mrs.  Whitman's  poems  all  betray  the  lux 
uriant  delight  with  which  she  abandons  her 
self  to  her  inspirations.  The  silvery  sweet 
ness  and  clearness  of  her  versification,  the 
varied  modulations  of  emphasis  and  cadence, 
the  many  nice  adaptations  of  sound  to  sense, 
would  alone  entitle  her  poems  to  lank  among 
our  most  exquisite  lyrics ;  but  these  subtle 
intertwinings  and  linked  harmonies  of  her 
style  are  ennobled  by  thoughts  full  of  origi 
nality  and  beauty,  and  enriched  by  illustra 
tions  drawn  from  a  wide  range  of  literary  cul 
ture.  She  has  not  only  the  artist  eye  which 
sees  at  a  glance  all  that  outline  and  color  can 
express,  but  she  gives  us  the  breathing  per 
fumes,  the  atmospheric  effects,  and  the  spir 
itual  character,  of  the  scenes  that  live  in  her 
numbers.  lgg 


y 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


167 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY: 

A  TALE  OF  FORESTS  AND  ENCHANTMENTS  DREAR. 

//  PctiScrM.,. 
Si-ter,  'tis  the  noon  of  night  !  — 

Lei  us,  in  tlie  web  of  thought. 
We  ive  the  threads  of  ancient  song, 

From  the  realms  of  F.iiiie.s  brought. 
Thou  shall  stain  the  dusky  warp 


In  niglit.-hiide  wet  with 


t  dew: 


I,  with  streaks  of  morning  -old, 
Will  strike  tlie  fabric  Uiraufb  and  through.  * 

WHKHE  a  lone  castle  by  the  sea 

Upreared  its  dark  and  mouldering  pile, 
Far  seen,  with  all  its  frowning  towers, 

For  many  and  many  a  weary  mile  ; 
The  wild  waves  beat  the  castle  walls, 

And  bathed  the  rock  with  ceaseless  showery 
The  winds  roared  fiercely  round  the  pile, 

And  moaned  along  its  mouldering  towers. 
Within  those  wide  and  echoing  halls, 

To  guard  her  fro.n  a  fatal  spell, 
A  maid  of  noble  lineage  born 

Was  doomed  in  solitude  to  dwell. 
Five  fairies  graced  the  infant's  birth 

With  fame  and  beauty,  wealth  and  power; 
The  sixth',  by  one  fell  stroke,  reversed 

The  lavish  splendors  of  her  dower. 
Whene'er  the  orphan's  lily  hand 

A  spindle's  shining  point  should  pierce, 
She  swore  upon  her  magic  wand, 

The  maid  shou'd  sleep  a  hundred  years. 
The  wild  waves  beat  the  east  e  wall, 

And  bathed  the  rock  with  ceaseless  showers  ; 
Dark,  heaving  billows  plunge  and  fall 

In  whitening  foam  beneath  the  towers. 
There,  rocked  by  winds  and  lulled  by  waves, 

In  youthful  grace  the  maiden  grew, 
And  from  her  so  itary  dreams 

A  sweet  and  pensive  pleasure  drew. 
Yet  often,  from  her  lattice  high, 

She  gazed  athwart  the  gathering  night, 
To  mark  the  sea-gulls  wheeling  by, 

And  longed  to  follow  in  their  flight. 
One  winter  night,  beside  the  hearth 

She  sat  and  watched  the  smouldering  fire, 
While  now  the  tempests  seemed  to  lull, 

And  now  the  winds  rose  high  and  higher  — 
Strange  sounds  are  heard  along  the  wall, 

Dim  faces  glimmer  through  the  gloom  — 
And  still  mysterious  voices  call, 

And  shadows  flit  from  room  to  room  —  • 
Till,  bending  o'er  the  dying  brands, 

She  chanced  a  sudden  gleam  to  see  : 
She  turned  the  sparkling  embers  o'er, 

And  lo  !  she  finds  a  golden  key  ! 
Lured  on,  as  by  an  unseen  hand, 

She  roamed  the  castie  o'er  and  o'er  — 
Through  many  a  darkling  chamber  sped, 

And  many  a  dusky  corridor  : 
And  still,  through  unknown,  winding  ways 

She  wandered  on  for  many  an  hour, 
For  gallery  still  to  gallery  leads, 

Arid  tower  succeeds  to  tower. 
Oft,  wearied  with  the  steep  ascent, 

She  lingered  on  her  lonely  way, 
And  paused  beside  the  pictured  walls, 

*  This  is  a  joint  production  of  Mrs.  Whitman  and  her  sis 
ter,  Miss  Tower.  ;is  before  stated. 


Their  countless  wonders  to  survey. 
At  length,  upon  a  narrow  stair 

That  wound  within  a  turret  high, 
She  saw  a  little  low-browed  door, 

And  turned,  her  golden  key  to  try  : 
Slowly,  beneath  her  trembling  hand, 

The  bolts  recede,  and,  backward  flung, 
With  harsh  recoil  and  sullen  clang 

The  door  upon  its  hinges  swung. 
There,  in  a  little  moonlit  room, 

She  sees  a  weird  and  withered  crone, 
\V  ho  sat  and  spun  amid  the  gloom, 

And  turned  her  wheel  with  drowsy  drone 
With  mute  amaze  and  wondering  awe, 

A  passing  moment  stood  the  maid, 
Then,  entering  at  the  narrow  door, 

More  near  the  mystic  task  surveyed. 
She  saw  her  twine  the  flaxen  fleece, 

She  saw  her  draw  the  flaxen  thread, 
She  viewed  the  spind'e's  shining  point, 

And,  pleased,  the  novel  task  surveyed. 
A  sudden  longing  seized  her  breast 

To  twine  the  fleece,  to  turn  the  wheel  : 
She  stretched  her  lily  hand,  and  pierced 

Her  finger  with  the  shining  steel ! 
Slowly  her  heavy  eyelids  close, 

She  feels  a  drowsy  torpor  creep 
From  limb  to  limb,  till  every  sense 

Is  locked  in  an  enchanted  sleep. 
A  dreamless  slumber,  deep  as  night. 

In  deathly  trance  her  senses  locked 
At  once  through  all  its  massive  vaults 

And  gloomy  towers  the  castle  rocked: 
The  beldame  roused  her  from  her  lair, 

And  raised  on  high  a  mournful  wail — 
A  shrilly  scream  that  seemed  to  float 

A  requiem  on  the  dying  gale. 
"A  hundred  years  shall  pass,"  she  said, 

"Ere  those  blue  eyes  behold  the  morn, 
Ere  these  deserted  halls  and  towers 

Shall  echo  to  a  bugle-horn. 
A  hundred  Norland  winters  pass, 

While  drenching  rains  and  drifting  snows 
Shall  beat  against  the  castle  walls, 

Nor  wake  thee  from  thy  long  repose. 
A  hundred  times  the  golden  grain 

Shall  wave  beneath  the  harvest  moon, 
Twelve  hundred  moons  shall  wax  and  wane 

Ere  yet  thine  eyes  behold  the  sun  !" 
She  ceased :  but  still  the  mystic  rhyme 

The  long-resounding  aisles  prolong, 
And  a!I  the  castle's  echoes  chime 

In  answering  cadence  to  her  song. 
She  bore  the  maiden  to  her  bower, 

An  ancient  chamber  wide  and  low, 
Where  golden  sconces  from  the  wall 

A  faint  and  trembling  lustre  throw  ; 
A  silent  chamber,  far  apart, 

Where  strange  and  antique  arras  hung, 
That  waved  along  the  mouldering  walls, 

And  in  the  gusty  night  wind  swung 
She  laid  her  on  her  ivory  bed, 

And  gently  smoothed  each  snowy  limb, 
Then  drew  the  curtain's  dusky  fold 

To  make  the  entering  daylight  dim. 


168 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


P.ART    II. 

And  all  around,  on  every  side, 
Throughout  the  castle's  precincts  wide, 

In  every  bower  and  hall, 
All  slept:  the  warder  in  the  court, 
The  figures  on  the  arra.*  wrought, 

The  steed  within  his  stall. 
No  more  the  watchdog  hayed  the  moon, 
The  owlet  ceased  her  boding  tune, 

The  raven  on  his  tower, 
All  hushed  in  slumber  still  and  deep, 
Enthralled  in  an  enchanted  sleep, 

Await  the  appointed  hour. 
A  pathless  forest,  wild  and  wide, 
Engirt  the  castle's  inland  side, 

And  stretched  for  many  a  mile ; 
So  thick  its  deep,  impervious  screen, 
The  castle  towers  were  dimly  seen 

Above  the  mouldering  pile. 
So  high  the  ancient  cedars  sprung, 
So  far  aloft  tlieir  branches  flung, 

So  close  the  covert  grew, 
No  foot  its  si!ence  could  invade, 
No  eye  could  pierce  its  depths  of  shade, 

Or  see  the  welkin  through. 
Yet  oft,  as  from  some  distant  mound 
The  traveller  cast  his  eyes  around, 

O'er  wold  and  woodland  gray, 
.He  saw,  athwart  the  glimmering  light 
Of  moonbeams,  on  a  misty  night, 

A  castle  far  away. 

A  hundred  Norland  winters  passed, 

While  drenching  rains  and  drifting  snows 
Beat  loud  against  the  castle  walls, 

Nor  broke  the  maiden's  long  repose. 
A  hundred  times  on  vale  and  hill 

The  reapers  bound  the  golden  corn — 
And  now  the  ancient  halls  and  towers 

Reecho  to  a  bugle-horn  ! 

A  warrior  from  a  distant  land, 

With  helm  and  hauberk,  spear  and  brand. 

And  high,  untarnished  crest, 
By  visions  of  enchantment  led, 
Hath  vowed,  before  the  morning's  red, 

To  break  her  charmed  rest. 
From  torrid  clime  beyond  the  main 
He  comes  the  costly  prize  to  gain, 

O'er  deserts  waste  and  wide. 
No  dangers  daunt,  no  toils  can  tire; 
With  throbbing  heart  and  soul  on  fire 

He  seeks  his  sleeping  bride. 
He  gains  the  old,  enchanted  wood, 
Where  never  mortal  footsteps  trod, 

He  pierced  its  tangled  gloom  ; 
A  dullness  loads  the  lurid  air, 
Where  baleful  swamp-fires  gleam  and  glare, 

His  pathway  to  illume. 
Weil  might  the  warrior's  courage  fail, 
Well  might  his  lofty  spirit  quail, 

On  that  enchanted  ground  ; 
No  opHii  foemun  meets  him  there, 
Bui,  borne  upon  the  murky  air, 

Strange  horror  broods  around  ' 
At  everv  turn  nis  footsteps  sank 


Mid  tangled  boughs  and  mosses  dank, 

For  long  and  weary  hours — 
Till  issuing  from  the  dangerous  wood, 
The  castle  full  before  him  stood, 

With  all  its  flanking  towers! 
The  moon  a  paly  lustre  sheds; 
Resolved,  the  grass-grown  court  he  treads, 

The  g'oomy  portal  gained — 
He  crossed  the  threshold's  magic  hound, 
He  paced  the  hall,  where  all  around 

A  deathly  silence  reigned. 
No  fears  his  venturous  course  could  stay — 
Darkling  he  groped  his  dreary  way — 

Up  the  wide  staircase  sprang. 
It  echoed  to  his  mailed  heel; 
With  clang  of  arms  and  clash  of  steel 

The  silent  chambers  rang. 
He  sees  a  glimmering  taper  gleam 
Far  off,  with  faint  and  trembling  beam, 

Athwart  the  midnight  gloom  : 
Then  first  he  felt  the  touch  of  fear, 
As  with  slow  footsteps  drawing  near, 

He  gained  the  lighted  room. 
And  now  the  waning  moon  was  low, 
The  perfumed  tapers  faintly  glow, 

And,  by  their  dying  gleam, 
He  raised  the  curtain's  dusky  fold, 
And  lo  !  his  charmed  eyes  behold 

The  lady  of  his  dream  ! 
As  violets  peep  from  wintry  snows, 
Slowly  her  heavy  lids  unclose, 

And  gently  heaves  her  breast; 
But  all  unconscious  was  her  gaze, 
Her  eye  with  listless  languor  strays 

From  brand  to  plumy  crest : 
A  rising  blush  begins  to  dawn 
Like  that  which  steals  at  early  morn 

Across  the  eastern  sky  ; 
And  slowly,  as  the  morning  broke, 
The  maiden  from  her  trance  awoke 

Beneath  his  ardent  eye  ! 
As  the  first  kindling  sunbeams  threw 
Their  level  light  athwart  the  dew, 

And  tipped  the  hills  with  flame, 
The  silent  forest-boughs  were  stirred 
With  music,  as  from  bee  and  bird 

A  mingling  murmur  came. 
From  out  its  depths  of  tangled  gloom 
There  came  a  breath  of  dewy  bloom, 

And  from  the  valleys  dim 
A  cloud  of  fragrant  incense  stole, 
As  if  each  violet  breathed  its  soul 

Into  that  floral  hymn. 
Loud  neighed  the  steed  within  his  stall, 
The  cock  crowed  on  the  castle  wall, 

The  warder  wound  his  horn ; 
The  linnet  sang  in  leafy  bower, 
The  swallows,  twittering  from  the  tower, 

Salute  the  rosy  morn. 
But  fresher  than  the  rosy  morn, 
And  blither  than  the  bugle-horn, 

The  maiden's  heart  doth  prove, 
Who,  as  her  beaming  eyes  awake, 
Beholds  a  double  morning  break — 

The  dawn  of  light  and  love! 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


169 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER. 

FAREWELL  the  forest  shade,  the  twilight  grove, 
The  turfy  path  with  fern  and  flowers  inwove, 
Where  through  long  summer  days  I  wandered  far, 
Till  warned  of  evening  by  her  "  folding  star." 
No  more  I  linger  by  the  fountain's  play 
Where  arching  boughs  shut  out  the  sultry  ray. 
Making  at  noontide  hours  a  dewy  gloom      [bloom, 
O'er  the  moist  marge  where  weeds  and  wild  flowers 
Til!  from  the  western  sun  a  glancing  flood 
Of  arrowy  radiance  filled  the  twilight  wood, 
Glinting  athwart  each  leafy,  verdant  fold, 
And  flecking  all  the  turf  with  drops  of  gold. 

Sweet  sang  the  wild  bird  on  the  waving  bough 
Where  cold  November  winds  are  wailing  now ; 
The  chirp  of  insects  on  the  sunny  lea, 
And  the  wild  music  of  the  wandering  bee, 
Are  silent  a  1 — closed  is  their  vesper  lay, 
Borne  by  the  breeze  of  autumn  far  away  : 
Yet  still  the  withered  heath  I  love  to  rove, 
The  bare,  brown  meadow,  and  the  leafless  grove  ; 
Still  love  to  tread  the  bleak  hill's  rocky  side, 
Where  nodding  asters  wave  in  purple  pride, 
Or  from  its  summit  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  the  dark  waters  booming  far  below. 
Still  through  the  tangling,  pathless  copse  I  stray 
Where  sere  and  rustling  leaves  obstruct  the  way, 
To  find  the  last  pale  blossom  of  the  year, 
That  strangely  blooms  when  a  1  is  dark  and  drear: 
The  wild,  witch  hazel,  fraught  with  mystic  power 
To  ban  or  bless,  as  sorcery  rules  the  hour. 
Then,  homeward  wending   thro'   the  dusky  vale 
Where  winding  rills  their  evening  damps  exhale, 
Pause  by  the  dark  pool  in  whose  sleeping  wave 
Pale  Dian  loves  her  golden  locks  to  lave 
In  the  hushed  fountain's  heart,  serene  and  cold, 
Glassing  her  glorious  image — as  of  old, 
When  first  she  stole  upon  Endymion's  rest, 
And  his  young  dreams  with  heavenly  beauty  blest. 

And  thou,  "  stern  ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Cold,  cheerless  Winter,  hath  thy  wild  career 
No  sweet,  peculiar  pleasures  for  the  heart, 
That  can  ideal  worth  to  rudest  forms  impart] 
When,  through  thy  long,  dark  nights,  cold  sleet  and 
Patter  and  plash  against  the  frosty  pane,        [rain 
Warm  curtained  from  the  storm,  I  love  to  lie 
Wakeful,  and  listening  to  the  lullaby 
Of  fitful  winds,  that,  as  they  rise  and  fall, 
Send  hollow  murmurs  through  the  echoing  hall. 

Oft  by  the  blazing  hearth  at  eventide 
I  love  to  mark  the  changing  shadows  glide 
In  flickering  motion  o'er  the  umbered  wall, 
Till  Slumber's  honey  dew  my  senses  thrall. 
Then,  while  in  dreamy  consciousness  I  lie 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  fairy  Fantasy 
Cul's  from  the  golden  past  a  treasured  store, 
And  weaves  a  dream  so  sweet,  Hope  could  not  ask 
for  more. 

In  the  cold  splendor  of  a  frosty  night, 
When  blazing  stars  burn  with  intenser  light 
Through  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  ;  when  cold  and 

clear 

The  air  through  which  yon  tall  cliffs  rise  severe ; 
Or  when  the  shrouded  earth  in  solemn  trance 


Sleeps  'neath  the  wan  moon's  melancholy  glance, 
I  love  to  mark  earth's  sister  planets  rise, 
And  in  pale  beauty  tread  the  midnight  skies, 
Where,  like  lone  pilgrims,  constant  as  the  night, 
They  fill  their  dark  urns  from  the  fount  of  light. 

I  lo\<*  the  JBorealis'  flames  that  fly 
Fitful  and  wild  athwart  the  northern  sky — 
The  storied  constellation,  like  a  page 
Fraught  with  the  wonders  of  a  former  age, 
Where  monsters  grim,  gorgons,  and  hydras,  rise, 
And  "  gods  and  heroes  blaze  along  the  skies." 

Thus  Nature's  music,  various  as  the  hour, 
Solemn  or  sweet,  hath  ever  mystic  power 
Still  to  preserve  the  unperverted  heart 
Awake  to  love  and  beauty — to  impart 
Treasures  of  thought  and  feeling  pure  and  deep, 
That  aid  the  doubting  soul  its  heavenward  course 
to  keep. 


A  STILL   DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  through  the  woodlands  hoary 
In  the  soft  light  of  an  autumnal  day, 

When  Summer  gathers  up  her  robes  of  glory, 
And  like  a  dream  of  beauty  glides  away. 

How  through  each  loved,  familiar  path  she  lingers, 
Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden  mist, 

Tinting  the  wild  grape  with  her  dewy  fingers 
Till  the  cool  emerald  turns  to  amethyst : 

Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel,  shining 
To  light  the  gloom  of  Autumn's  mouldering  halls 

With  hoary  plumes  the  clematis  entwining 
Where  o'er  the  rock  her  withered  garland  falls. 

Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands  waning 

Beneath  soft  clouds  along  the  horizon  rolled, 
Till  the  slant  sunbeams  through  their  fringes  raining 

Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 
The  moist  windsbreathe  of  crisped  leaves  and  flowers 

In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland  sown, 
Mingling  the  freshness  of  autumnal  showers 

With  spicy  airs  from  cedarn  alleys  blown. 

Beside  the  brook  and  on  the  umbered  meadow, 

Where  yellow  fern-tufts  fleck  the  faded  ground, 
With  folded  lids  beneath  their  palmy  shadow 

The  gentian  nods  in  dewy  slumbers  bound. 
Upon  those  soft,  fringed  lids  the  bee  sits  brooding, 

Like  a  fond  lover  loath  to  say  farewell, 
Or  with  shut  wings,  through  silken  folds  intruding, 

Creeps  near  her  heart  his  drowsy  tale  to  tell. 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hil'side  lonely 
Flit  noiselessly  along  from  from  spray  to  spray, 

Silent  as  a  sweet  wandering  thought  that  only 
Shows  its  bright  wings  and  softly  glides  away. 

The  scentless  flowers  in  the  warm  sunlight  dream- 
Forget  to  breathe  their  fullness  of  delight,     [ing, 

And  through  the  tranced  woods  soft  airs  are  stream- 
Still  as  the  dewfall  of  the  summer  night.        [ing, 

So,  in  my  heart  a  sweet,  unwonted  feeling, 
Stirs  like  the  wind  in  ocean's  hollow  shell — 

Through  all  its  secret  chambers  sadly  stealing, 
Yet  finds  no  word  its  mystic  charm  to  tell. 


170 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


•'A  GREEN   AND    SILENT    SPOT   AMONG   | 
THE  HILLS." 

IN  the  soft  gloom  of  summer's  balmy  eve, 
When  from  the  lingering  glances  of  the  .5un 
The  sad  Earth  turns  away  her  blushing  cheek, 
Mant'ing  its  glow  in  twilight's  shadowy    .eil, 
Oft  mid  the  falling  dews  I  love  to  stray 
Onward  and  onward  through  the  pleasant  fields, 
Far  up  the  lilied  borders  of  the  stream, 
To  this  "green,  silent  spot  among  tl^e  hi  Is," 
Endeared  by  thronging  memories  of  the  past. 

Oft  have  I  lingered  on  this  rustic  bridge 
To  view  the  limpid  waters  winding  on 
Under  dim  vaulted  woods,  whose  woven  boughs 
Of  beech,  and  maple,  and  broad  sycamore, 
Throw  their  soft,  moving  shadows  o'er  the  wave, 
While  blossoaied  vines,  dropped  to  the  water's  brim, 
Hang  idly  swaying  in  the  summer  wind. 

The  birds  that  wander  through  the  twilight  heaven 
Are  mirrored  far  beneath  me,  and  young  leaves 
That  tremble  on  the  birch  tree's  silver  boughs, 
In  the  cool  wave  reflected,  gleam  below 
Like  twinkling  stars  athwart  the  verdant  gloom. 

A  sound  of  rippling  waters  rises  sweet 
Amid  the  silence ;  and  the  western  breeze, 
Sighing  through  sedges  and  low  meadow  blooms, 
Comes  wafting  gentle  though tsfrom  Memory's  land, 
And  wakes  the  long  hushed  music  of  the  heart. 

Oft  dewy  Spring  hath  brimmed  the  brook  with 

showers ; 

Oft  hath  the  long,  bright  Summer  fringed  its  banks 
With  breathing  blossoms;  and  the  Autumn  sun 
Shed  mellow  hues  o'er  all  its  wooded  shores, 
Since  first  I  trod  these  paths  in  youth's  sweet  prime, 
With  loved  ones  whom  Time's  desolating  wave 
Hath  wafted  now  for  ever  from  my  side. 
The  living  stream  still  lingers  on  its  way 
In  idle  dalliance  with  the  dew  lipped  flowers 
That  toss  their  pretty  heads  at  its  caress, 
Or  trembling  listen  to  its  silver  voice ; 
While  through  yon  rifted  boughs  the  evening  star 
Is  seen  above  the  hilltop,  beautiful 
As  when  on  many  a  balmy  summer  night, 
Lapped  in  sweet  dreams,  in  "  holy  passion  hushed," 
I  saw  its  ray  slant  through  the  tremb  ing  pines. 

Long  years  have  passed  :  and  by  the  unchanging 
Bereft  and  sorrow  taught,  alone  I  stand,      [stream, 
Listening  the  hollow  music  of  the  wind. 
Alone — alone  !   the  stars  are  far  away, 
And  frequent  clouds  shut  out  the  summer  heaven, 
But  still  the  calm  Earth  keeps  her  constant  course, 
And  whispershope  through  all  hcrbreathingflowers. 

Not  all  in  vain  the  vision  of  our  youth — 
The  apocalypse  of  beauty  and  of  love — 
Thr,  stag! ike  heart  of  hope :  life's  mystic  dream 
The  soul  shall  yet  interpret — to  our  prayer 
The,  Isis  veil  be  lifted — though  we  pine 
E'en  mid  the  ungathered  roses  of  our  youth, 
Pierced  with  strange  pangs  and  longings  infinite, 
As  if  earth's  fairest  flowers  served  but  to  wake 
Sad,  haunting  memories  of  our  Eden  home, 
Not  all  in  vain.     Meantime,  in  patient  trust 
Rest  we  on  Nature's  bosom — from  her  eye 
Serene  and  still,  drinking  in  faith  and  love, 


To  her  calm  pu'se  attempering  the  heart 
That  throbs  too  wildly  for  ideal  bliss. 

Oh,  gentle  mother !  heal  me,  for  I  faint 
Upon  life's  arid  pathway,  and  "  my  feet 
On  the  dark  mountains  stumble."    Near  thy  heart 
In  childlike  trust,  close  nestling,  let  me  lie, 
And  let  thy  breath  fall  cool  upon  my  cheek 
As  in  those  unworn  ages,  ere  pale  Thought 
Forestalled  life's  parent  harvest.    Give  me  strength 
In  generous  abandonment  of  heart 
To  fo'low  wheresoe'er  o'er  the  world's  waste 
The  cloudv  pillar  movcth,  till  at  last 
It  guide  to  p'easant  va'es  and  pastures  green 
By  the  sti.l  waters  of  eternal  life. 


THE  WAKING  OF  THE  HEART. 

"  Pleasure  sits  in  the  flower  cups,  and  breathes  itselfout  in  ftagnince, 
Rake  I. 

As  the  fabled  stone  into  music  woke 
When  the  morning  sun  o'er  the  marble  broke, 
So  wakes  the  heart  from  its  stern  repose ; 
As  o'er  brow  and  bosom  the  spring  wind  blows, 
So  it  stirs  and  trembles  as  each  low  sigh 
Of  the  breezy  south  comes  murmuring  by — 
Murmuring  by  like  a  voice  of  love, 
Wooing  us  forth  amid  flowers  to  rove, 
Breathing  of  meadow-paths  thickly  sown 
With  pearls  from  the  blossoming  fruit  trees  blown, 
And  of  banks  that  slope  to  the  southern  sky 
Where  languid  violets  love  to  lie. 

No  foliage  droops  o'er  the  woodpath  now, 
No  dark  vines  swinging  from  bough  to  bough ; 
But  a  trembling  shadow  of  silvery  green 
Falls  through  the  young  leaf's  tender  screen, 
Like  the  hue  that  borders  the  snowdrop's  bell, 
Or  lines  the  lid  of  an  Indian  shell ; 
And  a  fairy  light,  like  the  firefly's  glow, 
Flickers  and  fades  on  the  grass  below. 

There  the  pale  Anemone  lifts  her  eye 
To  look  at  the  clouds  as  they  wander  by, 
Or  lurks  in  the  shade  of  a  palmy  fern 
To  gather  fresh  dews  in  her  waxen  urn.    [breast, 
Where  the  moss  lies  thick  on  the  brown  earth's 
The  shy  little  Mayflower  weaves  her  nest, 
But  the  south  wind  sighs  o'er  the  fragrant  loam, 
And  betrays  the  path  to  her  woodland  home. 

Already  the  green  budding  birchen  spray 
Winnows  the  balm  from  the  breath  of  May, 
And  the  aspen  thrills  to  a  low,  sweet  tone 
From  the  reedy  bugle  of  Faunus  blown. 

In  the  tangled  coppice  the  dwarf  oak  weaves 
Her  fringelike  b'ossoms  and  crimson  leaves; 
The  sallows  their  delicate  buds  unfold 
Into  downy  feathers  bedropped  with  gold ; 
While,  thick  as  the  stars  in  the  midnight  sky, 
In  the  dark,  wet  meadows  the  cowslips  lie. 

A  love  tint  flushes  the  wind-flower's  cheek, 
Rich  melodies  gush  from  the  violet's  beak, 
On  the  rifts  of  the  rock  the  wild  columbines  grow, 
Their  heavy  honey-cups  bending  low — 
As  a  neart  which  vague,  sweet  thoughts  oppress, 
Droops  'neath  its  burden  of  happiness.        [wells, 

There  the  waters  drip  from  their  moss  rimmed 
With  a  sound  like  the  tinkling  of  silver  bells, 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


171 


Or  fall  with  a  mellow  and  flutclike  flow 
Through  the  channels  and  clefts  of  the  rock  below. 

Soft  music  gushes  in  every  tone, 
And  perfume  in  every  breeze  is  blown ; 
The  flower  in  fragrance,  the  bird  in  song, 
The  glittering  wave  as  it  glides  along — 
All  breathe  the  incense  of  boundless  bliss, 
The  eloquent  music  of  happiness. 

And  the  soul  as  it  sheds  o'er  the  sunbright  hour 
The  unto'd  wealth  of  its  mystic  dower, 
Linked  to  all  nature  by  chords  of  love, 
Lifted  by  faith  to  bright  worlds  above — 
How,  with  the  passion  of  beauty  fraught, 
Shall  it  utter  its  burden  of  blissful  thought ! 
Yet  sad  would  the  springtime  of  nature  seem 
To  the  soul  that  wanders  mid  life's  dark  dream 
Its  glory  a  meteor  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
A  blossom  that  floats  on  the  storm-wind  by, 
If  it  woke  no  thought  of  that  starry  clime 
That  lies  on  the  desolate  shores  of  Time, 
If  it  nurtured  no  delicate  flowers  to  blow 
On  the  hills  where  the  palm  and  the  amaranth  grow. 


A  DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"Yet  one  more  smile,  departing  distant  sun 
Ere  o'er  the  frozen  earth  the  loud  winds  run 
And  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  baie."—  Bryant. 

A  DAY  of  golden  beauty  ! — Through  the  night 

The  hoar-frost  gathered  o'er  each  leaf  and  spray 

Weaving  its  filmy  network,  thin  and  bright 

And  shimmering  like  silver  in  the  ray 

Of  the  soft,  sunny  morning — turf  and  tree 

Pranked  in  its  de.icate  embroidery, 

And  every  withered  stump  and  mossy  stone, 

With  gems  encrusted  and  with  seed-pearl  sown ; 

While  in  the  hedge  the  frosted  berries  glow, 

The  scarlet  holly  and  the  purple  sloe, 

And  all  is  gorgeous,  fairy-like  and  frail, 

As  the  famed  gardens  of  the  Arabian  tale. 

How  soft  and  still  the  varied  landscape  lies, 
Calmly  outspread  beneath  the  smiling  skies, 
As  if  the  earth  in  prodigal  array 
Of  gems  and  broidered  robes  kept  holyday ; 
Her  harvest  yielded  and  her  work  all  done 
Basking  in  beauty  'neath  the  autumn  sun  ! 

Yet  once  more  through  the  soft  and  balmy  day 
Up  the  brown  hill-side,  o'er  the  sunny  brae, 
Far  let  us  rove — or,  through  lone  solitudes  [woods," 
Where  "  autumn's  smile  beams  through  the  yellow 
Fondly  retracing  each  sweet,  summer  haunt 
And  sylvan  pathway — where  the  sunbeams  slant 
Through  yonder  copse,  tinging  the  saffron  stars 
Of  the  witch-hazel  with  their  golden  bars, 
Or,  lingering  down  this  dim  and  shadowy  lane 
Where  still  the  damp  sod  wears  an  emerald  stain, 
Though  ripe  brown  nuts  hang  clustering  in  the 
And  the  rude  barberry  o'er  yon  rocky  ledge  [hedge, 
Droops  with  its  pendent  corals.  When  the  showers 
Of  April  clothed  this  winding  path  with  flowers, 
Here  oft  we  sought  the  violet,  as  it  lay 
Buried  in  beds  of  moss  and  lichens  gray ; 
And  still  the  aster  greets  us  as  we  pass 


With  her  faint  smile — among  the  withered  grass 
Beside  the  way,  lingering  as  loath  of  heart, 
Like  me,  from  these  sweet  solitudes  to  part. 

Now  seek  we  the  dank  borders  of  the  stream 
Where  the  ta'I  fern-tufts  shed  a  ruby  gleam 
Over  the  water  from  their  crimsoned  plumes, 
And  clustering  near  the  modest  gentian  blooms 
Lonely  around — hallowed  by  sweetest  song, 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  the  floral  throng. 
Yet  here  we  may  not  linger,  for  behold. 
Where  the  stream  widens,  like  a  sea  of  gold 
Outspreading  far  before  us — all  around 
Steep  wooded  heights  and  sloping  uplands  bound 
The  sheltered  scene — along  the  distant  shore 
Through  colored  woods  the  glinting  sunbeams  pour, 
Touching  their  foliage  with  a  thousand  shades 
And  hues  of  beauty,  as  the  red  light  fades 
Upon  the  hill-side  'neath  yon  floating  shroud, 
Or,  from  the  silvery  edges  of  the  cloud 
Pours  down  a  brighter  gleam.     Gray  willows  lave 
Their  pendent  branches  in  the  crystal  wave, 
And  slender  birch  trees  o'er  its  banks  incline, 
Whose  tall,  slight  stems  across  the  water  shine 
Like  shafts  of  silver — there  the  tawny  elm, 
The  fairest  subject  of  the  sylvan  realm, 
The  tufted  pine  tree  and  the  cedar  dark, 
And  the  young  chestnut,  its  smooth  polished  bark 
Gleaming  like  porphyry  in  the  yellow  light, 
The  dark  brown  oak  and  the  rich  maple  dight 
In  robes  of  scarlet,  all  are  standing  there 
So  still,  so  cairn  in  the  soft  misty  air, 
That  not  a  leaf  is  stirring — nor  a  sound 
Startles  the  deep  repose  that  broods  around, 
Save  when  the  robin's  melancholy  song 
Is  heard  from  yonder  coppice,  and  along 
The  sunny  side  of  that  low,  moss-grown  wall 
That  skirts  our  path,  the  cricket's  chirping  call, 
Or,  the  fond  murmur  of  the  drowsy  bee 
O'er  some  lone  flow'ret  on  the  sunny  lea, 
And,  heard  at  intervals,  a  pattering  sound 
Of  ripened  acorns  rustling  to  the  ground         [all, 
Through  the  crisp,  withered  leaves. — How  lonely 
How  calmly  beautiful  !     Long  shadows  fall 
More  darkly  o'er  the  wave  as  day  declines, 
Yet  from  the  west' a  deeper  glory  shines, 
While  every  crested  hi  1  and  rocky  height 
Each  moment  varies  in  the  kindling  light 
To  some  new  form  of  beauty — changing  through 
All  shades  and  colors  of  the  rainbow's  hue, 
"  The  last  still  loveliest"  till  the  gorgeous  day 
Melts  in  a  flood  of  golden  light  away, 
And  a'l  is  o'er.     Before  to-morrow's  sun 
Cold  winds  may  rise  and  shrouding  shadows  dun 
Obscure  the  scene — vet  shall  these  fading  hues 
Arid  fleeting  forms  their  loveliness  transfuse 
Into  the  mind — and  memory  shall  burn 
The  painting  in  on  her  enamelled  urn 
In  undecaying  colors.     When  the  Ivast 
Rages  around  and  snows  are  gathering  fast, 
When  musing  sadly  by  the  twilight  hearth 
Or  lonely  wandering  through  life's  crowded  path 
Its  quiet  beauty  rising  through  the  gloom 
Shall  sooth  the  languid  spirits  and  illume 
The  droo  ing  fancy — winning  back  the  soul    [rrol 
To  cheei  il  thoughts  through  nature's  sweet  COTJ 


172 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


THE  LOST  CHURCH. 

FROM  THK  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

Is  yonder  dim  and  pathless  wood 

Strange  sounds  are  heard  at  twilight  hour, 
A.nd  peals  of  solemn  music  swell 

As  from  some  minster's  lofty  tower, 
From  age  to  age  those  sounds  are  heard, 

Borne  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour ; 
From  age  to  age  no  foot  hat'.i  found 

A  pathway  to  the  minster's  tower ! 

Late,  wandering  in  that  ancient  wood, 

As  onward  through  the  gloom  I  trod, 
From  all  the  woes  and  wrongs  of  earth 

My  soul  ascended  to  its  God. 
When  lo,  in  the  hushed  wilderness 

I  heard,  for  off,  that  solemn  bell : 
Still  heavenward  as  my  spirit  soared, 

Wi  der  arid  sweeter  rang  the  knell. 

While  thus  in  holy  musings  rapt, 

My  mind  from  outward  sense  withdrawn, 
Some  power  had  caught  me  from  the  earth, 

And  far  into  the  heavens  upborne — 
Methought  a  hundred  years  had  passed 

In  mystic  visions  as  I  lay, 
When  suddenly  the  parting  clouds 

Seemed  opening  wide  and  far  away. 

No  midday  sun  its  glory  shed, 

The  stars  were  shrouded  from  my  sight, 
And  lo !  majestic  o'er  my  head 

A  minster  shone  in  solemn  light. 
High  through  the  lurid  heavens  it  seemed 

Aloft  on  cloudy  wings  to  rise, 
Till  all  its  pointed  turrets  gleamed 

Far  flaming  through  the  vaulted  skies ! 

The  bell  with  full  resounding  peal 

Rang  booming  through  the  rocking  tower: 
No  hand  had  stirred  its  iron  tongue, 

Slow  swaying  to  the  storm-wind's  power. 
My  bosom  beating  like  a  bark 

Dashed  by  the  surging  ocean's  foam, 
I  trod  with  faltering,  fearful  joy 

The  mazes  of  the  mighty  dome. 

A  soft  light  through  the  oriel  streamed 

Like  summer  moonlight's  go'den  gloom, 
Far  through  the  dusky  arches  gleamed, 

And  filled  with  glory  all  the  room. 
Pale  sculptures  of  the  sainted  dead 

Seemed  waking  from  their  icy  thrall, 
And  many  a  glory  circled  head 

Smiled  sadly  from  the  storied  wall. 
Low  at  the  altar's  foot  I  knelt, 

Transfixed  with  awe,  and  dumb  with  dread, 
For  blazoned  on  the  vaulted  roof 

Were  heaven's  fiercest  glories  spread. 
Vet  when  I  raised  my  eyes  once  more, 

The  vaulted  roof  itself  was  gone ; 
Wide  open  was  heaven's  lofty  door, 

And  every  cloudy  veil  withdrawn ! 
What  visions  burst  upon  my  soul, 

What  joys  unutterable  there 
fn  wuves  on  waves  for  ever  roll 

Like  music  through  the  pulseless  air — 


These  never  mortal  tongue  may  tell : 

Let  him  who  fain  would  prove  their  power, 

Pause  when  he  hears  that  solemn  knell 
Float  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour. 


THE  PAST. 

"  So  near— yet  oh,  how  IUr!"—  Goetfie'e  Helena. 

THICK  darkness  broodeth  o'er  the  world: 

The  raven  pinions  of  the,  Night 
Close  on  her  silent  bosom  furled, 

Reflecf  no  gleam  of  orient  light. 
E'en  the  vild  norland  fires,  that  mocked 

The  faint  bloom  of  the  eastern  sky, 
Now  leave  me,  in  close  darkness  locked, 

To  night's  weird  realm  of  fantasy. 
Borne  from  pa'e  shadow-lands  remote, 

A  Morphean  music,  wildly  sweet, 
Seems  on  the  starless  gloom  to  float 

Like  the  white  pinioned  Paraclete. 
Softly  into  my  dream  it  flows, 

Then  faints  into  the  silence  drear, 
While  from  the  hollow  dark  outgrows 

The  phantom  Past,  pale  gliding  near. 
The  visioned  Past — so  strangely  fair ! 

So  veiled  in  shadowy,  soft  regrets, 
So  steeped  in  sadness,  like  the  air 

That  lingers  when  the  daystar  sets ! 
Ah  !  could  I  fold  it  to  my  heart, 

On  its  cold  lip  my  kisses  press, 
This  waste  of  aching  life  impart 

To  win  it  back  from  nothingness ! 
I  loathe  the  purple  light  of  dav, 

And  shun  the  morning's  golden  star, 
Beside  that  shadowy  form  to  stray 

For  ever  near,  yet  oh  how  far ! 
Thin  as  a  cloud  of  summer  even, 

All  beauty  from  my  gaze  it  bars ; 
Shuts  out  the  silver  cope  of  heaven, 

And  glooms  athwart  the  dying  stars. 
Cold,  sad,  and  spectral,  by  my  side 

It  breathes  of  love's  ethereal  bloom — 
Of  bridal  memories  long  affied 

To  the  dread  silence  of  the  tomb. 
Sweet  cloistered  memories,  that  the  heart 

Shuts  close  within  its  chalice  cold, 
Faint  perfumes  that  no  more  dispart 

From  the  bruised  lily's  floral  fold. 
"  My  soul  is  weary  of  her  life ;" 

My  heart  sinks  with  a  slow  despair  • 
The  solemn,  starlit  hours  are  rife 

With  fantasy — the  noontide  glare, 
And  the  cool  morning,  "  fancy  free," 

Are  false  with  shadows,  for  the  day 
Brings  no  blithe  sense  of  verity, 

Nor  wins  from  twilight  thoughts  away 
Oh,  bathe  me  in  the  Lethean  stream, 

And  feed  me  pn  the  lotus  flowers ; 
Shut  out  this  false,  bewildering  gleam, 

The  dreamlight  of  departed  hours  ! 
The  Future  can  no  charm  confer, 

My  heart's  deep  solitudes  to  break — 
No  angel's  foot  again  shall  stir 

The  waters  of  that  silent  lake. 


SARAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


I  wander  in  pale  dreams  siway, 

And  shun  the  morning's  golden  star, 
To  follow  still  that  tailing  ray 

For  ever  near,  yet  oh  how  far ! 
Then  bathe  me  in  the  Lel,hean  stream, 

And  feed  me  on  the  lotus  flowers ; 
Nor  leave  one  late  arid  lingering  beam, 

One  memory  of  departed  hours ! 


A  SEPTEMBER  EVENING  ON  THE  BANKS 
OF  THE  MOSHASSUCK. 


"  Now  to  the  sessions  of  sweet,  silent  thought, 
1  summon  up  remembrance  of  tilings  past." 

S/talapirv'i  Sw.nets. 

AGAIX  September's  golden  day 

Serenely  still,  intensely  bright, 
Fades  on  the  umbered  hills  away 

And  melts  into  the  coming  night. 
Again  Moshassuck's  silver  tide 
Reflects  each  green  herb  on  its  side, 
Each  tasselled  wreath  and  tangling  vine, 
Whose  tendrils  o'er  its  margin  twine. 

And  standing  on  its  velvet  shore 

Where  yesternight  with  thee  I  stood, 
I  trace  its  devious  course  once  more 

Far  winding  on  through  vale  and  wood. 
Now  glimmering  through  yon  golden  mist, 
By  the  last  glinting  sunbeams  kissed, 
Now  lost  where  lengthening  shadows  fall 
From  hazel  copse  and  moss-fringed  wall. 

Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn 

The  lonely  gentian  blossoms  still, 
Still  wave  the  star-flower  and  the  fern 

O'er  the  soft  outline  of  the  hill ; 
Wliile  far  aloft  where  pine  trees  throw 
Their  shade  athwart  the  sunset  glow, 
Thin  vapors  cloud  the  illumined  air 
And  parting  da v  light  lingers  there. 

But  ah,  no  longer  fhou  art  near 

This  varied  loveliness  to  see, 
And  I,  though  fondly  lingering  here 

To-night  can  only  think  on  thee — 
The  flowers  thy  gentle  hand  caressed 
Still  lie  un  withered  on  my  breast, 
And  still  thy  footsteps  print  the  shore 
Where  thou  and  I  may  rove  no  more. 

Again  I  hear  the  murmuring  fall 
Of  water  from  some  distant  dell, 

The  beetle's  hum,  the  cricket's  call, 
And,  far  away,  that  evening  bell — 

Again,  again  those  sounds  I  hear, 

But  oh,  how  desolate  and  drear 

They  seem  to-night — how  like  a  knell 

The  music  of  that  evening  bell. 

Again  the  new  moon  in  the  west, 
Scarce  seen  upon  yon  golden  sky, 

Hangs  o'er  the  mountain's  purple  crest 
With  one  pale  planet  trembling  nigh, 

And  beautiful  her  pearly  light 

As  when  we  blessed  its  beams  last  night, 

But  thou  art  on  the  far  blue  sea, 

And  I  can  only  think  on  thee. 


SUMMER'S  INVITATION  TO  THE  ORPHAN 

THE  summer  skies  are  darkly  blue, 

The  days  are  still  and  bright, 
And  Evening  trails  her  robes  of  gold 

Through  the  dim  halls  of  night. 
Then,  when  the  little  orphan  wakes, 

A  low  voice  whispers,  "  Come, 
And  all  day  wander  at  thy  will 

Beneath  my  azure  dome. 
"  Beneath  my  vaulted  azure  dome, 

Through  all  my  flowery  lands, 
No  higher  than  the  lowly  thatch 

The  roval  palace  stands. 
"  I  '11  fill  lay  little  longing  arms 

With  fruits  and  wilding  flowers, 
And  tell  thee  tales  of  fairy  land 

In  the  long  twilight  hours." 
The  orphan  hears  that  wooing  voice : 

A  while  he  softly  broods — 
Then  hastens  down  the  sunny  slopes 

Into  the  twilight,  woods. 
There  all  things  whisper  pleasure: 

The  tree  has  fruits,  the  grass  has  flowers, 
And  the  little  birds  are  singing 

In  the  dim  and  leafy  bowers. 
The  brook  stays  him  at  the  crossing 

In  its  waters  cool  and  sweet, 
And  the  pebb'es  leap  around  him 

And  frolic  at  his  feet. 
At  night  no  cruel  hostess 

Receives  him  with  a  frown ; 
He  sleeps  where  all  the  quiet  stars 

Are  ca'mly  looking  down. 
The  Moon  comes  gliding  through  the  tieeh, 

And  softly  stoops  to  spread 
Her  dainty  silver  kirtle 

Upon  his  grassy  bed. 
The  drowsy  night  wind  murmuring 

Its  quaint  old  tunes  the  while, 
Till  Morning  wakes  him  with  a  song, 

And  greets  him  with  a  smile. 


STANZAS  WITH  A  BRIDAL  RINd 

THE  young  Moon  hides  her  virgin  heart 

Within  a  ring  of  gold  ; 
So  doth  this  little  circlet,  all 

My  bosom's  love  infold, 
And  tell  the  tale  that  from  my  lips 

Seems  ever  half  untold, 
Like  the  rich  legend  of  the  east 

That  never  finds  a  close, 
But  winds  in  linked  sweetness  on 

And  lengthens  as  it  goes, 
Or  like  this  little  cycle  still 

Returneth  whence  it  flows. 
And  still  as  in  the  elfin  ring 

Where  fairies  dance  by  night, 
Shall  the  green  places  of  the  heart 

Be  kept  for  ever  bright, 
And  hope  within  this  magic  round 

Still  blossom  in  delight. 


174 


SARAH    HELEN   WHI1MAN. 


SHE  BLOOMS  NO  MORE. 

"Oh  jirimavera,  gioventu  dell'  anno, 
Itelht  miulivdi  liori 
Tu  tiinii  ben,  ma  teco 
Xori  tnrnani  i  -ereni 
K  tortiinati  di  delle  mi  gioge."  —  Gttarini. 


to  see  the  summer  sun 
Come  glowing  up  the  sky, 
And  early  pansies,  one  by  one, 
Opening  the  violet  eye. 

The  choral  melody  of  June, 

The  perfumed  breath  of  heaven, 

The  dewy  morn,  the  radiant  noon, 
The  lingering  light  of  even  — 

These,  which  so  charmed  my  careless  heart 

In  happy  days  gone  by. 
A  deeper  sadness  now  impart 

To  Memory's  thoughtful  eye. 

They  speak  of  one  who  sleeps  in  death, 

Her  race  untimely  o'er  — 
Who  ne'er  shall  taste  Spring's  honeyed  breath, 

Nor  see  her  glories  more  : 

Of  one  who  shared  with  me  in  youth 

Life's  sunshine  and  its  flowers, 
And  kept  unchanged  her  bosom's  truth 

Through  all  its  darker  hours. 

Slip  faded  when  the  leaves  were  sere, 
And  wailed  the  autumnal  blast; 

With  all  the  glories  of  the  year, 
From  earth  her  spirit  passed. 

Again  the  fair  azalia  bows 

Beneath  its  snowy  crest  ; 
In  yonder  hedge  the  hawthorn  blows, 

The  robin  builds  her  nest  ; 

The  tulips  lift  their  proud  tiars, 

The  lilac  waves  her  plumes, 
And  peeping  through  my  lattice-bars 

The  rose-acacia  blooms. 

Bieathe  but  one  word,  ye  starry  flowers! 

One  litt'e  word  to  tell, 
If  in  that  far  off  shadow-land 

Love  and  Remembrance  dwell. 

For  she  can  bloom  on  earth  no  more, 

Whose  early  doom  I  mourn  ; 
Nor  Spring  nor  Summer  can  restore 

Our  flower,  untimely  shorn. 

Now  dim  as  folded  vio'ets 

Her  eyes  of  dewy  light, 
And  her  rosy  lips  have  mournfully 

Breathed  out  their  last  good-night! 
She  ne'er  shall  hear  again  the  song 

Of  merry  birds  in  spring, 
Nor  roam  the  flowery  braes  among 

In  the  year's  young  blossoming  ; 

\or  longer  in  the  lingering  light 

Of  summer's  eve  shall  we, 
Locked  hand  in  hand,  together  sit 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
T  is  therefore  that  I  dread  to  see 

The  glowing  summer  sun, 


And  balmy  blossoms  on  the  tree 
Unfo'ding  one  by  one. 

They  speak  of   hings  that  once1  have  been, 

But  never  more  can  be  : 
And  earth  all  decked  in  smiles  again 

Is  still  a  waste  to  rne. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  DREAM. 


1  Tlirire  hallowed  lie  tlia 
c  ln-ek  Mill  l)lu>he*  at  tb 
thoughts."—  Jean  Pmil. 


beautiful  dawn  of  love  when  tlie  maiden't 
conscious  —vfetness  of  lie.  ovrn  inr.ocent 


ASK  not  if  she  loves,  but  look 
In  the  blue  depths  of  her  eye, 

Where  the  maiden's  spirit  seems 
Tranced  in  happy  dreams  to  lie. 

All  the  blisses  of  her  dream, 

All  she  may  not,  must  not  speak, 

Read  them  in  her  clouded  eye, 

Read  them  on  her  conscious  cheek. 

See  that  cheek  of  virgin  snow 

Damasked  with  love's  rosy  bloom  ; 

Mark  the  lambent  thoughts  that  glow 
Mid  her  blue  eye's  tender  gloom. 

As  if  in  a  cool,  deep  well, 

Veiled  by  shadows  of  the  night, 

Slanting  through,  a  starbeam  fell, 
Filling  all  its  depths  with  light. 

Something  mournful  and  profound 
Saddens  all  her  beauty  now, 

Weds  her  dark  eye  to  the  ground  — 
Fling's  a  shadow  o'er  her  brow. 

Hath  her  love-illumined  soul 

Raised  the  veil  of  coming  years- 

Read  upon  life's  mystic  scroll 
Its  doom  of  agony  and  tears  1 

Tears  of  tender  sadness  fall 
From  her  soft  and  lovelit  eye, 

As  the  night  dews  heavily 

Fall  from  summer's  cloudless  sky. 

Still  she  sitteth  coyly  drooping 
Her  white  lids  in  virgin  pride, 

Like  a  languid  lily  stooping 
Low  her  folded  blooms  to  hide. 

Starting  now  in  soft  surprise 

From  the  tangled  web  of  thought, 

Lo,  her  heart  a  captive  lies, 

In  its  own  sweet  fancies  caught 

Ah  !  bethink  thee,  maiden  yet, 
Ere  to  passion's  doom  betrayed  ; 

Hearts  where  Love  his  seal  has  set, 
Sorrow's  fiercest  pangs  invade. 

Let  that  young  heart  s'  umber  still, 

Like  a  bird  within  its  nest  ; 
Life  can  ne'er  its  dreams  fulfil  — 

Love  but  yield  thee  long  unrest. 

Ah  !  in  vain  the  dovelet  tries 

To  break  the  web  of  tender  thought— 
The  little  heart  a  captive  lies, 

In  its  own  sweet  fancies  caught 


SARAH    HELEN   WHITMAN. 


175 


KOGER  WILLIAMS. 

WRITTEN   FOR  AV   ANNIVERSARY   OF   THE  IIHODE 
ISLAND  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY. 

Now,  wlii'e  the  echoing  cannon's  roar 

Rocks  our  i'ar  frontal  towers, 
And  bu_>;le  blast  and  trumpet's  blare 

Float  o'er  the  "  Land  of  Flowers ;" 
While  our  bo  d  ea^le  spreads  his  wing, 

No  more  in  lofty  pride, 
But  sorrowing  sinks,  as  if  from  Heaven 

The  ensanguined  field  to  hide: 
Turn  we  from  War's  bewildering  blaze, 

And  Conquest's  choral  song, 
To  the  still  voice  of  other  days, 

Long  heard — forgotten  long. 

Listen  to  his  rich  words,  intoned 

To  "  songs  of  lofty  cheer," 
Who,  in  the  "  howling  wilderness," 

When  only  God  could  hear, 
Breathed  not  of  exile,  nor  of  wrong, 

Through  the  long  winter  nights, 
But  uttered,  in  exulting  song, 

The  soul's  unchartered  rights. 

Who  opened  wide  the  guarded  doors 

Where  Conscience  reigned  alone, 
And  bade  the  nations  own  her  laws, 

And  tremble  round  her  throne  ; 
Who  sought  the  oracles  of  God 

Within  her  veiled  shrine, 
Nor  asked  the  monarch  nor  the  priest 

Her  sacred  laws  to  sign. 

The  brave,  high  heart,  that  would  not  yield 

Its  liberty  of  thought, 
Far  o'er  the  melancholy  main, 

Through  bitter  trials  brought ; 
But,  to  a  double  exile  doomed, 

By  Faith's  pure  guidance  led 
Through  the  dark  labyrinth  of  life, 

Held  fast  her  golden  thread. 

Listen  ! — the  music  of  his  dream 

Perchance  may  linger  still 
In  trie  old  familiar  places 

Beneath  the  emerald  hill. 
The  waveworn  rock  still  breasts  the  storm 

On  Seekonk's  lonely  side, 
Where  the  dusk  natives  hailed  the  bark 

That  bore  their  gentle  guide. 

The  spring  that  gushed,  arnid  the  wild, 
In  music  on  his  ear, 

Still  pours  its  waters  undefiled, 
The  fainting  heart  to  cheer. 

But  the  fair  cove,  that  slept  so  calm- 
Beneath  o'ershadowing  hills, 

And  bore  the  pilgrim's  evening  psalm 
Far  up  its  flowery  rills — 

The  tide  that  parted  to  receive 

The  stranger's  light  canoe, 
As  if  an  angel's  balmy  wing 

Had  swept  its  waters  blue — 
When,  to  the  healing  of  its  wave, 

We  come  in  pensive  thought, 
Through  all  its  pleasant  borders 

A  dreary  change  is  wrought ! 


The  fire-winged  courser's  breath  has  swept 

Across  its  cooling  tide : 
Lo !  where  he  plants  his  iron  heel, 

How  fast  the  wave  has  dried ! 
Unlike  the  fabled  Pegasus, 

Whose  proud  hoof,  where  he  trode 
Earth's  flinty  bosom,  oped  a  fount 

Whence  living  waters  flowed. 

Or,  turn  we  to  the  green  hill's  side : 

There,  with  the  spring-time  showers, 
The  white  thorn,  o'er  a  nameless  grave, 

Rains  its  pale,  silver  flowers. 
Yet  Memory  lingers  with  the  past, 

Nor  vainly  seeks  to  trace 
His  footprints  on  a  rock,  whence  time 

Nor  tempests  can  efface  ; 

Whereon  he  planted,  fast  and  deep, 

The  roof  tree  of  a  home 
Wide  as  the  wings  of  Love  may  sweep, 

Free  as  her  thoughts  may  roam  ; 
Where  through  all  time  the  saints  may  dwell 

And  from  pure  fountains  draw 
That  peace  which  passeth  human  thought, 

In  liberty  and  law. 

When  heavenward,  up  the  silver  stair 

Of  silence  drawn,  we  tread 
The  visioned  mount  that  looks  beyond 

The  valley  of  the  dead— 
Oh,  may  we  gather  to  our  hearts 

The  deeds  our  fathers  wrought, 
And  feed  the  perfumed  lamp  of  Love 

In  the  cool  air  of  Thought. 
While  Hope  shall  on  her  anchoi  lean, 

May  Memory  fondly  turn, 
To  wreathe  the  amaranth  and  the  palm 

Around  their  funeral  urn  ! 


HOW  SOFTLY  COMES  THE   SUMMER 
WIND. 

"  And  henceforth  all  that  once  was  ffiir, 
Grew  fairer." 

How  softly  comes  the  summer  wind 

At  evening,  o'er  the  hill — 
For  ever  murmuring  of  thee 

When  busy  crowds  are  still ; 
The  wayside  flowers  seem  to  guess 
And  whisper  of  my  happiness. 

While,  in  the  dusk  and  dewy  hours, 

The  silent  stars  above 
Seem  leaning  from  their  airy  towers 

To  gaze  on  me  in  love ; 
And  clouds  of  silver  wander  by, 
Like  missioned  doves  athwart  the  sky 

Till  Dian  lulls  the  throbbing  stars 

Into  elysian  dreams, 
And,  rippling  through  my  lattice-bai->, 

A  brooding  glory  streams 
Around  me,  like  the  golden  shower 
That  rained  through  Danae's  guarded  tower 

A  low,  bewildering  melody 

Is  murmuring  in  my  §ar — 
Tones  such  as  in  the  twilight  wood 


170 


SAKAH    HELEN    WHITMAN. 


The  aspen  thrills  to  hear, 
When  Faunus  slumbers  on  the  hill, 
And  all  the  tranct-d  boughs  are  still. 

The  jasmine  twines  her  snowy  stars 

Into  a  fairer  wreath ; 
The  lily,  through  my  lattice-bars, 

Exhales  a  sweeter  breath; 
And,  gazing  on  Night's  starry  cope, 
I  dwell  with  "  Beauty,  which  is  Hope." 


A  SONG  OF  SPRING. 

Jx  April's  dim  and  showery  nights, 
When  music  melts  along  the  air, 

And  Memory  wakens  at  the  kiss 

Of  wandering  perfumes,  faint  and  rare — 

Sweet  springtime  perfumes,  such  as  won 
Proserpina  from  realms  of  gloom 

1  o  bathe  her  bright  locks  in  the  sun, 
Or  bind  them  with  the  pansy's  bloom , 

When  light  winds  rift  the  fragrant  bowers 
Where  orchards  shed  their  floral  wreath, 

Strewing  the  turf  with  starry  flowers, 
And  dropping  pearls  at  every  breath ; 

When  all  night  long  the  boughs  are  stirred 
With  fitful  warblings  from  the  nest, 

And  the  heart  flutters  like  a  bird 
With  its  sweet,  passionate  unrest — 

Oh !  then,  beloved,  I  think  on  thee, 
And  on  that  life,  so  strangely  fair, 

Ere  yet  one  cloud  of  memory 

Had  gathered  in  hope's  golden  air. 

I  think  on  thee  and  thy  lone  grave 
On  the  green  hillside  far  away ; 

1  see  the  wilding  flowers  that  wave 

Around  thee  as  the  night  winds  sway ; 

And  still,  though  only  clouds  remain 
On  life's  horizon,  cold  and  drear, 

The  dream  of  youth  returns  again 
With  the  sweet  promise  of  the  year. 

[  linger  ti  1  night's  waning  stars 

Have  ceased  to  tremble  through  the  gloom, 
Till  through  the  orient's  cloudy  bars 

I  see  the  rose  of  morning  bloom ! 

All  flushed  and  radiant  with  delight, 
It  opens  through  earth's  stormy  skies, 

Divine  y  beautiful  and  bright 
As  on  the  hills  of  paradise. 

Lo !  like  a  dewdrop  on  its  breast 

The  morning  star  of  youth  and  love, 

Melting  within  the  rosy  east, 
Exhales  to  azure  depths  above. 

My  spirit,  soaring  like  a  lark, 
Would  follow  on  its  airy  flight, 

And,  like  yon  little  diamond  spark, 
Dissolve  into  the  realms  of  light. 

Sweet-missioned  star !  thy  silver  beams 

Foretell  a  fairer  life  to  come, 
And  through  the  golden  gate  of  dreams 

Allurp  the  wandering  spirit  home. 


DAVID. 

SUGGASTEI)    BY  A  STATUE: 


Ar,  this  is  he — the  bold  and  gentle  boy, 

That  in  lone  pastures  by  the  mountain's  side 
Guarded  his  fold,  and  through  the  midnight  sky 

Saw  on  the  blast  the  God  of  battles  ride ; 
Beheld  his  bannered  armies  on  the  height, 
And  heard  their  clarion  sound  through  all  the  stormy 

night. 
The  va'iant  boy  that  o'er  the  twilight  wold 

Tracked  the  dark  lion  and  ensanguined  bear; 
Following  their  bloody  footsteps  from  the  fold 

Far  down  the  gorges  to  their  lonely  lair — 
This  the  stout  heart,  that  from  the  lion's  jaw 
Back  o'er  the  shuddering  waste  the  bleeding  victim 

bore. 
Though  his  fair  locks  lie  all  unshorn  and  bare 

To  the  bold  toying  of  the  mountain  wind, 
A  conscious  glory  haunts  the  o'ershadowing  air, 

And  waits  with  glittering  coil  his  brows  to  bind, 
While  his  proud  temples  bend  superbly  down, 
As  if  they  felt  e'en  now  the  burden  of  a  crown. 

Though  a  stern  sorrow  slumbers  in  his  eyes, 

As  if  his  prophet  glance  foresaw  the  day 
When  the  dark  waters  o'er  his  soul  should  rise, 

And  friends  and  lovers  wander  far  away — 
Yet  the  graced  impress  of  that  floral  mouth 
Breathes  of  love's  golden  dream  and  the  voluptuous 

south. 
Peerless  in  beauty  as  the  prophet  star, 

That  in  the  dewy  trances  of  the  dawn 
Floats  o'er  the  solitary  hills  afar, 

And  brings  sweet  tidings  of  the  lingering  morn ; 
Or  weary  at  the  day-god's  loitering  wane, 
Strikes  on  the  harp  of  light  a  soft  prelusive  strain. 

So  his  wild  harp  with  psaltery  and  shawm 
Awoke  the  nations  in  thick  darkness  furled, 

While  mystic  winds  from  Gilead's  groves  of  balm 
Wafted  its  sweet  hosannas  through  the  world — • 

So  when  the  Dayspring  from  on  high  he  sang, 

With  joy  the  ancient  hills  and  lone'y  valleys  rang. 

Ay,  this  is  he — the  minstrel,  prophet,  king, 
Before  whose  arm  princes  and  warriors  sank ; 

Who  dwelt  beneath  Jehovah's  mighty  wing, 
And  from  the  "  river  of  his  pleasures"  drank ; 

Or  through  the  rent  pavilions  of  the  storm 

Beheld  the  cloud  of  fire  that  veiled  his  awful  form. 

Antl  now  he  stands  as  when  in  Elah's  vale, 
Where  warriors  set  the  battle  in  array, 

He  met  the  Titan  in  his  ponderous  mail, 

Whose  haughty  chal'enge  many  a  summer's  day 

Rang  through  the  border  hills,  whi'e  all  the  host 

Of  faithless  Israel  heard  and  trembled  at  his  boast. 

Till  the  slight  stripling  from  the  mountain  fold 
Stood,  all  unarmed,  amid  their  sounding  shields, 

And  in  his  youth's  first  bloom,  devout'y  bold, 
Dared  the  grim  champion  of  a  thousand  fields : 

So  stands  he  now,  as  in  Jehovah's  might 

Glorying,  he  met  the  foe  and  won  the  immortal  fight. 


*  This  fine  statue,  executed  by  Thomas  F.  Hoppin,  of 
Providence,  R.  I.,  represents  the  young  champion  of  Is 
rael  a*  he  stands  prepared  to  attack  the  Philistine 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH 


(Born  1806). 


THIS  accomplished  and  popular  author  was 
born  in  a  pleasant  country  town  about  twelve 
miles  from  the  city  of  Portland,  in  Maine. 
Descended  on  her  father's  side  from  Thomas 
Prince,  one  of  the  early  Puritan  governors  of 
the  Plymouth  colony,  and  claiming  through 
the  Oakeses,  on  her  mother's  side,  the  same 
early  identification  with  the  first  European 
planters  .of  our  soil,  Mrs.  OAKES-SMITH  may 
readily  be  supposed  to  have  that  characteris 
tic  which  is  so  rarely  found  among  us,  Amer 
icanism  ;  and  her  writings  in  their  depart 
ment  may  be  regarded  as  the  genuine  expres 
sion  of  §an  American  mind. 

At  the  early  age  of  sixteen,  Miss  Prince 
was  married  to  Mr.  Seba  Smith,  at  that,  time 
editor  of  the  leading  political  journal  of  his 
native  state,  and  since  then  well  known  to 
his  countrymen  as  the  original  "Jack  Down 
ing,"  whose  great  popularity  has  been  attest 
ed  by  a  score  of  imitators.  The  embarrassed 
affairs  of  Mr.  Smith  (who,  himself  a  poet, 
partook  with  a  poet's  sanguineness  of  tem 
per  in  that  noted  attempt  to  settle  the  wild 
lands  of  Maine,  which  proved  so  disastrous  a 
speculation  to  some  of  the  wealthiest  families 
of  the  state)  first  impelled  Mrs.  Oakes-Smith 
to  take  up  her  pen  to  aid  in  the  support  of 
her  children.  She  had  before  that  period, 
indeed,  given  utterance  to  her  poetic  sensi 
bilities  in  several  anonymous  pieces,  which 
are  still  much  admired.  But  a  shrinking  and 
sensitive  modesty  forbade  her  appearing  as 
an  author  ;  and  though,  in  her  altered  cir 
cumstances,  when  she  found  that  her  talents 
might  be  made  available,  she  did  not  hesitate, 
like  a  true  woman,  to  sacrifice  feeling  to  duty, 
yet  some  of  her  most  beautiful  prose  writings 
still  continue  to  appear  under  nommes  des 
plumes,  with  which  her  truly  feminine  spirit 
avoids  identification. 

Seeking  expression,  yet  shrinking  from  no 
toriety  ;  and  with  a  full  share  of  that  respect 
for  a  just  fame  and  appreciation  which  be 
longs  to  every  high-toned  mind,  yet  oppressed 
by  its  shadow  when  circumstance  is  the  im 
pelling  motive  of  publication,  the  writings  of 


Mrs.  Oakes-Smith  might  well  be  supposed  to 
betray  great  inequality ;  still  in  her  many  con 
tributions  to  the  magazines,  it  is  remarkable 
how  few  of  her  pieces  display  the  usual  care 
lessness  and  haste  of  magazine  articles.  As 
an  essayist  especially ,  while  graceful  and  live 
ly,  she  is  compact  and  vigorous ;  while  through 
poems,  essays,  tales,  and  criticisms,  (for  her 
industrious  pen  seems  equally  skilful  and  hap 
py  in  each  of  these  depatments  of  literature,) 
through  all  her  manifold  writings,  indeed, 
there  runs  the  same  beautiful  vein  of  philoso 
phy,  viz. :  that  truth  and  goodness  of  them 
selves  impart  a  holy  light  to  the  mind,  which 
gives  it  a  power  tar  above  mere  intellectu 
ality  ;  that  the  highest  order  of  human  in 
telligence  springs  from  the  moral  and  not 
the  reasoning  faculties. 

One  of  her  most  popular  poems  is  The 
Acorn,  which,  thougli  inferior  in  high  inspi 
ration  to  The  Sinless  Child,  is  by  many  pre 
ferred  for  its  happy  play  of  fancy  and  proper 
finish.  Her  sonnets,  oi  which  she  has  writ 
ten  many,  have  not  been  as  much  admired 
as  The  April  Rain,  The  Brook,  and  other  fu 
gitive  pieces,  which  we  find  in  many  popu 
lar  collections.  I  doubt,  indeed,  whether  they 
will  ever  attain  the  popularity  of  these  "un- 
considered  trifles,"  though  they  indicate  con 
centrated  poetical  power  of  a  very  high,  pos 
sibly  of  the  very  highest  order.  Not  so,  how 
ever,  with  The  Sinless  Child.  Works  of  bad 
taste  will  often  captivate  the  uncultivated 
many  ;  works  of  mere  taste  as  often  delight 
the  cultivated  few  ;  but  works  of  genius  ap 
peal  to  the  uniA'ersal  mind. 

The  simplicity  of  diction,  and  pervading 
beauty  and  elevation  of  thought,  which  are 
the  chief/characteristics  of  The  Sinless  Child, 
bring  it  undoubtedly  within  the  last  category. 
And  why  do  such  writings  seize  at  once  on 
the  feelings  of  every  class  ?  Wherein  lies 
this  power  of  genius  to  wake  a  response  in 
society  ?  Is  it  the  force  of  a  high  will,  fusing 
feeble  natures,  and  stamping  them  for  the 
moment  with  an  impress  of  its  own  ?  or  i? 
it  that  in  every  heart,  unless  thoroughly  (:or- 

177 


178 


ELIZABETH    O  A  KES-SMITH. 


rupted  by  the  world  —  in  every  mind,  unless 
completely  encrusted  by  cant,  there  lurks  an 
inward  sense  of  the  simple,  the  beautiful,  and 
the  true;  an  instinctive  perception  of  excel 
lence  which  is  both  more  unerring  and  more 
universal  than  that  of  mere  intellect.  Such 
is  the  cheering  view  of  humanity  enforced  in 
The  Sinless  Child,  and  the  reception  of  it  is 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  doctrine  it  so 
finely  shadows  forth.  "  It  is  a  work,"  says  a 
dis  riminating  critic,  "  which  demands  more 
in  its  composition  than  mere  imagination  or 
intellect  could  supply  :"  and  I  may  add  that 
the  writer,  in  unconsciously  picturing  the 
actual  graces  of  her  own  mind,  has  made  an 
irresistible  appeal  to  the  ideal  of  soul-loveli 
ness  in  the  minds  of  her  readers.  She  comes 
before  us  like  the  florist  in  Arabian  story, 
whose  magic  vase  produced  a  plant  of  such 
simple,  yet  perfect  beauty,  that  the  multitude 
were  in  raptures  from  the  familiar  field  as 
sociations  of  childhood  which  it  called  forth, 
while  the  skill  of  the  learned  alone  detected 
the  unique  rarity  of  the  enchanting  flower. 
An  analysis  of  The  Sinless  Child  will  not 
be  attempted  here,  but  a  few  passages  are 
quoted  to  exhibit  its  graceful  play  of  fancy 
and  the  pure  vein  of  poetical  sentiment  by 
which  it  is  pervaded.  And  first,  the  episode 
of  the  Step-Mother : 

You  speak  of  Robert's  second  wife, 

A  lofty  dame  and  hold  : 
I  like  not  her  forbiding  air, 

And  forehead  high  and  cold. 
The  orphans  have  no  cause  for  grief, 

She  dare  not  give  it  now, 
Though  nothing  hut  a  ghostly  fear 

Her  heart  of  pride  could  bow. 
One  night  the  boy  his  mother  called  : 

They  heard  him  weeping  say — 
"  Sweet  mother,  kiss  poor  Eddy's  cheek, 

And  wipe  his  tears  away  !" 
Red  grew  the  lady's  brow  with  rage, 

And  yet  she  feels  a  strife 
Of  anger  and  of  terror  too, 

At  thought  of  that  dead  wife. 
Wild  roars  the  wind,  the  lights  burn  blue, 

The  watch-dog  howls  with  fear ; 
Loud  neighs  the  steed  from  out  the  stall : 

What  form  is  gliding  near  ! 
No  latch  is  raised,  no  step  is  heard, 

But  a  phantom  fills  the  SJIHOB — 
A  sheeted  spectre  from  the  dead, 

With  cold  and  leaden  face  ! 
What  boots  it  that  no  other  eye 

Beheld  the  shade  appear] 
The  guilty  lady's  guilty  soul 

Beheld  it  plain  and  clear ! 


It  slowly  glides  within  the  room, 

And  sadly  looks  around — 
And  stooping,  kissed  her  daughter's  cheek 

With  lips  tha^  gave  no  sound ! 
Then  softly  on  the  stepdame's  arm 

She  laid  a  death-cold  hand, 
Yet  it  hath  scorched  within  the  flesh 

Like  to  a  burning  brand ; 
And  gliding  on  with  noiseless  foot, 

O'er  winding  stair  and  hall, 
She  nears  the  chamber  where  is  heard 

Her  infant's  trembling  call. 
She  smoothed  the  pillow  where  he  lay, 

She  warmly  tucked  the  bed, 
She  wiped  his  tears,  and  stroked  the  curls 

That  clustered  round  his  read. 
The  child,  caressed,  unknowing  fear, 

Hath  nestled  him  to  rest ; 
The  mother  folds  her  wings  beside — 

The  mother  from  the  blest ! 

It  is  commonly  difficult  to  select  from  a  po 
em  of  which  the  parts  make  one  harmonious 
whole  ;  but  the  history  of  The  Sinless  Child 
is  illustrated  all  through  with  cabinet  pic 
tures  which  are  scarcely  less  effective  when 
separated  from  their  series  than  when  com 
bined,  and  the  reader  will  be  gratified  with  a 
few  of  those  which  best  exhibit  the  author's 
manner  and  feeling : 

GUARUIAX    ANGELS.  ^ 

With  downy  pinion  they  enfold 

The  heart  surcharged  with  wo, 
And  fan  with  balmy  wing  the  eye 

Whence  floods  of  sorrow  flow ; 
They  bear,  in  golden  censers  up, 

That  sacred  gift,  a  tear — 
By  which  is  registered  the  griefs 

Hearts  may  have  suffered  here. 
No  inward  pang,  no  yearning  love 

Is  lost  to  human  hearts — 
No  anguish  that  the  spirit  feels, 

When  bright-winged  Hope  departs. 
Though  in  the  mystery  of  life 

Discordant  powers  prevail ; 
That  life  itself  be  weariness, 

And  sympathy  may  fail : 
Yet  all  becomes  a  discipline, 

To  lure  us  to  the  sky ; 
And  angels  bear  the  good  it  brings 

With  fostering  care  on  high. 
Though  human  hearts  may  weary  grow, 

And  sink  to  toil-spent  sleep, 
And  we  are  left  in  solitude 

And  agony  to  weep : 
Yet  they  with  ministering  zeal 

The  cup  of  healing  bring, 
And  bear  our  love  and  gratitude 

Away,  on  heavenward  wing ; 
And  thus  the  inner  life  is  wrought, 

The  blending  earth  and  heaven — • 
The  love  more  earnest  in  its  glow 

Where  much  has  been  forgiven  ! 


ELIZABETH    O  A  KES-SMITH. 


179 


FIELD    KLVES. 

The  tender  violets  bent  in  smiles 

To  elves  that  sported  nigh, 
Tossing  the  drops  of  fragrant  dew 

To  scent  the  evening  sky. 
They  kissed  the  rose  in  love  and  mirth, 

And  its  peta'.s  fairer  grew ; 
A  shower  of  pearly  dust  they  brought, 

And  o'er  the  lily  threw. 

A  host  flew  round  the  mowing  field, 

And  they  were  showering  down 
The  cooling  spray  on  the  early  grass, 

Like  diamonds  o'er  it  thrown  ; 
They  gemmed  each  leaf  and  quivering  spear 

With  pearls  of  liquid  dew, 
And  bathed  the  state'y  forest  tree 

Till  his  robe  was  fresh  and  new. 

SUPERSTITION". 

For  oft  her  mother  sought  the  child 

Amid  the  forest  glade, 
And  marvelled  that  in  darksome  glen 

So  tranquilly  she  stayed. 
For  every  jagg;'d  limb  to  her 

A  shadowy  semblance  hath 
Of  spectres  and  distorted  shapes, 

That  frown  upon  her  path, 
And  mock  her  with  their  hideous  eyes ; 

For  when  the  soul  is  blind 
To  freedom,  truth,  and  inward  light, 

Vague  fears  debase  the  mind. 

MIDSUMMER. 

'T  is  the  summer  prime,  when  the  noiseless  air 

In  perfumed  chalice  lies, 
And  the  bee  goes  by  with  a  lazy  hum, 

Beneath  the  sleeping  skies : 
When  the  brook  is  low,  and  the  ripples  bright, 

As  down  the  stream  they  go, 
The  pebbles  are  dry  on  the  upper  side, 

And  dark  and  wet  below. 
The  tree  that  stood  where  the  soil's  athirst, 

And  the  mulleins  first  appear, 
Hath  a  dry  and  rusty -colored  bark, 

And  its  leaves  are  curled  and  sere ; 
But  the  dogwood  and  the  hazel-bush 

Have  clustered  round  the  brook — 
Their  roots  have  stricken  deep  beneath, 

And  they  have  a  verdant  look. 
To  the  juicy  leaf  the  grasshopper  clings, 

And  he  gnaws  it  like  a  file ; 
The  naked  stalks  are  withering  by, 

Where  he  has  been  erewhile. 
The  cricket  hops  on  the  glistering  rock, 

Or  pipes  in  the  faded  grass ; 
The  beetle's  wing  is  folded  mute, 

Where  the  steps  of  the  idler  pass. 

CONSCIENCE. 

"  Dear  mother  !  in  ourselves  is  hid 

The  ho!y  spirit-land, 
Where  Thought,  the  flaming  cherub,  stands 

With  its  relentless  brand  : 
We  feel  the  pang  when  that  dread  sword 

Inscribes  the  hidden  sin, 
And  turneth  everywhere  to  guard 

The  paradise  within." 


FLOWERS. 

Each  tiny  leaf  became  a  scroll 

Inscribed  with  holy  truth, 
A  lesson  that  around  the  heart 

Shou'd  keep  the  dew  of  youth  ; 
Bright  missals  from  angelic  throngs 

In  every  by-way  left — 
How  were  the  earth  of  glory  shorn, 

Were  it  of  flowers  bereft ! 

They  tremble  <tn  the  Alpine  height; 

The  fissured  rock  they  press ; 
The  desert  wild,  with  heat  and  sand, 

Shares,  too,  their  blessedness : 
And  wheresoe'er  the  weary  heart 

Turns  in  its  dim  despair, 
The  meek-eyed  blossom  upward  looks, 

Inviting  it  to  prayer. 

INFANT    SLUMBER. 

A  holy  smile  was  on  her  lip 

Whenever  sleep  was  there; 
She  slept,  as  sleeps  the  blossom,  hushed 

Amid  the  silent  air. 

Recently  Mrs.  Smith  has  turned  her  at 
tention  to  the  field  which  next  to  the  epic  is 
highest  in  the  domain  of  literary  art,  and  it 
is  anticipated  by  those  who  have  examined 
her  tragedies  that  her  success  as  a  dramatic 
poet  will  secure  for  her  a  fame  not  promised 
by  any  of  her  previous  achievements.  The 
Roman  Tribute,  in  five  acts,  refers  to  a  fa 
miliar  period  in  the  history  of  Constantinople 
when  Theodosius  saved  the  city  from  being 
sacked  by  paying  its  price  to  the  victorious 
Attila;  and  the  subject  suggests  some  admi 
rable  contrasts  of  rude  integrity  with  treach 
erous  courtesy,  of  pagan  piety  with  the  craft 
of  a  nominal  Christianity,  still  pervaded  by 
heathen  prejudice  while  uncontrolled  by  hea 
then  principle.  The  play  opens  with  the 
spectacle  of  the  frivolous  monarch  jesting 
with  his  court  at  their  uncouth  enemies,  and 
exulting  at  the  happy  thought  of  buying  them 
off  with  money.  Then  appears  Anthemius, 
who  had  been  absent,  raising  levies  for  the 
defence  of  the  city,  indignant  at  the  coward 
ly  peace  which  makes  the  Roman  tributary 
to  the  Hun,  and  —  a  soldier,  a  statesman,  and 
a  patriot  —  he  determines  to  retrieve  the  na 
tional  honor.  Perplexed  as  to  the  best  means 
of  doing  this,  he  sees  that  the  whole  govern 
ment  must  be  recast.  Hitherto  Theodosius 
and  his  sister  had  between  them  sustained 
its  administration,  with  Anthemius  as  prime 
minister.  The  princess  had  conceived  for 
him  an  attachment,  and  would  have  thrown 
herself  and  the  purple  into  his  arms;  but  he 
has  no  sympathy  with  her  passion,  and  is  in 
tent  only  upon  the  emancipation  of  the  em 


:so 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


pire  by  placing  her  alone  in  possession  of 
the  crown,  and  sacrificing  Eudocia,  the  wife 
of  Theodosius,  who  is  rapidly  growing  in  the 
popular  favor.  Outraged  as  a  woman  a":d  a 
queen,  Pulcheria  offers  to  adjust  state  affairs 
by  marrying  the  barbarian  Attila,  and  An- 
themius  seemingly  accedes  to  the  plan,  re 
solving  to  destroy  the  Hun  at  the  bridal.  But 
Attila  rejects  the  proposal,  and  his  answer  is 
thus  reported  by  An  hemius  to  his  mistress: 
The  Hun  strade  up  and  down  his  tent,  and  swore 
The  plan  was  worthy  Atti  a  himself — 
Then  laid  his  finger  to  his  brow,  arid,  thus — 
Gods  what  a  progeny  might  spring  such  veins  con 
joined  ! 

But  she,  like  Attila,  loves  pomp  and  power — 
She,  with  her  line'y  trained  and  haughty  blood, 
Mine,  with  a  kingly  but  barbaric  flow: 
She,  keen  in  mystery  of  subtle  thought, 
I,  making  records  with  the  sword  and  blood. 

Anthemius,  influenced  entirely  by  consid 
erations  of  a  public  nature,  at  first  resolves 
upon  the  destruction  of  Eudocia,  but  dis 
gusted  with  the  masculine  energy  and  cruel 
craft  of  Pulcheria,  as  well  as  subdued  by  the 
gentler  virtues  of  the  suffering  queen,  tries  to 
save  her  life  and  place  her  upon  the  throne. 
He  is  persevering  in  the  one  purpose  of 
saving  the  empire,  and  to  accomplish  this, 
proceeds  to  the  camp  of  Attila,  with  the 
design  of  slaying  him  in  the  midst  of  his 
followers  ;  but  the  plot  is  betrayed  by  Hele 
na,  who  trembles  for  the  life  of  her  lover 
Manlius,  the  friend  and  companion  of  An 
themius  ;  and  disappointed  here,  he  next 
resolves  that  he  shall  die  at  the  banquet 
prepared  by  the  court,  ostensibly  in  honor 
of  the  barbarian  king,  but  in  reality  to  poison 
him.  The  generous  nature  of  Anthemius  is 
touched  by  the  hardy  simplicity  and  truthful 
magnanimity  of  the  rude  warrior,  and  he 
dashes  the  poisoned  chalice  aside  and  dares 
him  to  single  combat,  in  which  the  brave 
and  patriotic  minister  is  killed.  The  fol 
lowing  extract  gives  a  portion  of  the  last 
scene  : 

Anthemius.  Bear  with  me :  we  have  fallen  upon 

evil  times. 

Attila,  thou  art  a  soldier,  bred  in  the  camp — 
For  idle  pastime  hunting  the  wild  boar, 
With  n.mnd  and  spear  and  sound  of  bugle-horn ; 
In  wantonness  you  march  to  Rome,  or  here: 
Thy  palace  by  the  Danube  bravely  shows 
With  recking  rafters,  horns,  and  skins,  and  shields. 

Altila,  (interniptiii'jr  him.}  And  men,  stout  men, 
true,  and  a  thousand  strong. 

Ant.  I  do  believe  them  true,  and  strong,  and  bold. 
B  'hold  our  blazoned  walls — purple  and  gold  ! 


Wine  not  from  tusk  of  boar,  or  horn  of  deer, 
But  blushing  golden  in  the  golden  vase — 

Alt.  (scornfully.*)  A  fair  picture,  proud  Roman — • 

goodly  walls, 
With  hollow  faith — men,  curled  and  perfumed  ! 

Ant.  Attila,  we  have  fallen  upon  evil  times: 
Listen  !   In  that  rude  wooden  home  of  thine  [hound 
There's  not  the  meanest  serf  would  wrong  his 
By  mixing  poison  with  his  food — there 's  not — 

Att.  No,  by  the  eternal  gods  !  thou  'rt  worthy, 
Roman,  to  be  one  of  us. 

Ant.  (waving  his  hand.}   The  most  useless,  the 

most  old  and  outworn  beast 
That  human  hand  hath  trifled  with  in  love, 
Receives  his  death  by  honorable  wound, 
JNor  dies  like  a  poor  reptile  in  his  hole. 

[JJimlies  lite  cupj'i-om  him  ami  draws  /its  sirot  ± 

If  thou  'rt  God's  Fate,  show  thy  credentials  now  . 
Honor  to  thy  rude  service :  thy  barbaric  faith — 
Here  stand — thou  for  thy  skin-clad  hordes,  and  I 
For  Rome  ! 

There  is  a  striking  and  not  unnatural  con 
trast  in  the  character  of  the  two  queens. 
Pulcheria  is  haughty,  revengeful,  intelligent, 
and  imaginative.     Remorseless  in  the  pur 
suit  of  an  object,  and  unflinching  in  the  most 
daring  action,  she  is  yet  so  much  a  woman 
as  to  love  passionately  —  almost  tenderly  — 
and  when  evil  follows  her  policy,  haunted 
in  secret  by  shapes  of  conscience,  which,  to 
her  excited  and  powerful  imagination,  take 
tangible  forms  and  beset  her  path,  she  med 
itates  the  death  of  Eudocia: 
It  seemed  I  heard  a  dirge,  a  sound  of  wo — 
Wo,  wo  !  it  said.     Was  it  Eudocia's  voice  1 
How  my  heart  beats,  and  its  perturbed  play 
Hath  conjured  sounds  too  wildly  like  its  own — 

KU  DOC  I  A  tut  >•,-.  unofotrnrd,  tnulpromotutce*  ,'itr  nam   s  ,///y 

Who  called  ? — the  slightest  sound  grows  fearful  to 
Ay,  thus  it  is,  that  we  in  our  poor  pride         fme ! 
By  our  earth-serving  senses  are  beguiled ; 
Our  overweening  self  shapes  any  sound 
To  invocation  of  our  name,  and  we 
Recoil  as  'twere  a  summons  from  the  dead. 
Eudocia,  (w/%.)  The  child  starts  from  his  in- 

nocent  pillow 

And  answers  with  a  smile,  for  he  believes 
The  angels  called  him  with  their  sweet  rose  lips. 

[KUDOCIA  retires. 

Pul.  She  is  gone,  and  with  her  my  good  angel, 
I  shall  be  haunted  by  the  blackest  fiends. 
We  have  sat  embowered  in  friendly  converse  : 
Avaunt !  what  dost  thou  say,  thou  gibbering  imp 
Hark !   I  have  slumbered  with  thee  until  now — 
A  nameless,  shapeless,  wingless,  couchant  thing, 
Within  the  filmy  vesture  of  the  soul, 
Until  thy  evil  hour  evoked  me  forth. 
Oh  God  !  I  dare  not  pray,  and  this  within  : 
She  lives  !  no  sheeted  ghost  hath  leave  to  walk, 
And  curdle  up  my  blood  with  its  dead  stare. 

Fearful  to  sacrifice  Eudocia  at  once,  she 
entangles  her  in  the  meshes  of  court  craft 
till  she  is  finally  destroyed,  and  Pulcheria 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


181 


lives  to  enjoy  her  state  alone.  Eudocia  is 
the  reverse  of  the  empress,  gentle,  affection 
ate,  and  trustful ;  the  force  of  her  character 
is  evolved  solely  through  her  tenderness  for 
her  child.  Beloved  by  Theodosius,  she  is 
disgusted  at  his  imbecile  sensuality,  while 
her  graces  have  won  upon  the  barbarian  heart 
of  Bleda,  the  brother  of  Attila,  who  would 
gladly  win  her  to  himself  and  usurp  the 
throne.  Eudocia  is  a  woman,  but  one  steady 
in  her  devotion  to  duty.  Through  this  par 
tiality  of  Bleda,  Pulcheria  is  able  to  work  the 
downfall  of  the  queen.  She  has  gone  to  the 
house  of  her  father,  Leontius,  who  is  a  philos 
opher,  where  Bleda  has  also  gone  to  learn  the 
usages  and  philosophy  of  a  more  polite  people. 
Here  he  is  taken  ill,  and  Eudocia,  partly  in 
waywardness  and  partly  in  admiration  for 
his  character,  insists  upon  playing  the  leech. 
Pulcheria  brings  Theodosius,  who  finds  her 
kneeling  by  the  couch.  She  is  thrown  into 
prison  ;  thence  she  escapes  to  the  chamber 
of  her  husband,  designing  to  kill  him  in  re 
venge  for  her  wrongs,  but,  overcome  with 
pity,  she  turns  away,  and  dies  of  overwrought 
grief  in  the  arms  of  Anthemius,  who  has  tried 
in  vain  to  save  her.  The  following  is  a  part 
of  her  interview  with  Bleda: 

End,  Perchance  the  priest  would  best  become 
thy  case. 

Ble.  A  priest !  I  do  abhor  the  murmuring  tribe. 
Thine  air  bespeaks  thee  gentle  as  thy  sex  : 
Art  thou  not  one  of  those,  once  sacred  held 
As  priestess  of  a  shrine  1      The  ancient  gods 
Whom  our  forefathers  worshipped  in  their  strength, 
It  is  not  well  to  spurn  :  if  such  art  thou, 
A  secret  will  be  held  most  sacred  by  thee. 

End.  Nay,  mistake  me  not.  [office. 

Ble.  Thou  needst  not  fear ;  I  do  respect  thine 

End.  It  is  enough ;  thy  leech  is  unknown  to  thee. 

Ble.  (starting  and  taking  hold  of  her  veil.}  By 
the  gods — that  voice  ! 

End.  Our  art  is  learned  by  dames  of  gentle  blood, 
Who  sit  with  patient  toil  and  lips  contract, 
If  so  they  may  relieve  one  human  pang. 
The  ghastly  wound  appals  us  not,  nor  yet 
The  raging  fury  of  the  moonstruck  brain ; 
Not  wrinkled  hags  are  we,  with  corded  veins, 
Croaking  with  spells  the  midnight  watches  through, 
But  some  are  fair  as  she,  the  vestal  mother. 

Ble.  And  such  art  thou,  might  I  but  cast  aside 
This  envious  veil ;  thy  voice  is  crystalline, 
Like  water  moss-incrusted  in  its  flow !  [befit 

End.  I  will  hear  thee,  prince — such  tale  as  may 
A  woman's  ear. 

Ble.  (aside.}  Now,  Bleda,  shape  thy  speech  : 
Power  and  love  both  urge  thee  to  the  goal ! 
[7b  EUDOCIA.]  I  have  made  my  way  with  trusty 

sword  and  shield, 
Nor  falsehood  known — there  is  no  other  crime. 


But  thou,  all  passionless,  cold,  and  serene — 
Thy  truth,  like  drops  preserved  in  cubes  of  stone. 
For  drinking  of  the  gods,  can  know  no  change. 

Eud.  (aside.}  Thanks,  thanks,  for  words  so  high. 

Ble.  I  am  sick  of  love — love  of  a  dame 
Whose  dovelike  eyes  have  robbed  me  of  all  rest. 
The  world  is  in  the  market,  and  all  bid : 
Then  whv  not  Bleda,  urged  less  by  pride  than  love  ? 
I  would  become  a  Christian ;  the  meanest  knight 
Who  doth  her  service,  should  his  office  yield 
To  me  a  prince,  might  I  but  win  one  smile. 
The  fair  Eudocia —  [talkest  treason  ! 

Eud.  (starting}  Lift  not  thy  aspect  there  ;  thou 

Ble.  (aside}  She  listens.    I  can  hear  the  beating 
This  can  not,  must  not  be  a  dream  !     [of  her  heart ; 
[To  EUDOCIA.]  Eudocia  loathes  the  sensual,  weak 
ling,  dotard 

Emperor  of  Rome  :  she  should  cast  the  bondage  off, 
And  for  herself  and  child  assure  the  reins,  [hence. 

End.  (aside.}  lean  not  lift  my  knees,  or  I  would 
[To  BLKDA.]   Thy  ta'.e — I  must  away. 

Ble.  'Tis  told:  I  love  Eudocia!  and  thou • 

Eud.  Thy  words  are  madness !  [Aside.]  And  yet 

they  steal 

Like  dew  into  the  parched  bud,  and  lure 
My  aching,  vacant  heart  to  maddening  bliss. 

Ble.  Eudocia  must  be  saved,  and  who  but  Bleda 
WTill  lift  a  finger  for  the  rescue  1  '    [dead  ! 

Eud.  Nothing  can  be  done ;  she  and  Rome  are 

Ble.  Is  human  will  so  impotent  and  vain  ] 
Shall  we  see  the  wolf  with  fang  upon  the  lamb, 
Nor  stir  to  aid  1  the  vulture  tear  the  dove, 
And  we  forbear  the  shaft  1     No,  by  the  fates ! 

Eud.  (faintly.}  Such  are  God's  children:  'tis 
their  doom,  my  lord. 

Ble.  And  we  are  made  avengers  of  their  doom. 

[EUDOCIA  points  to  a  ring  on  the  finger  of  the  J'riiice. 

Such  ills  admit  of  no  redemption — none! 
Behold  this  circlet:   lightly  worn  as  'tis, 
It  hath  not  failed  to  leave  its  scar  behind. 
We  can  not  raze  the  traces  of  the  past ; 
Heal  up  the  jagged  wound,  and  leave  no  seam ; 
Tread  down  the  burning  ploughshare  with  our  feet> 
And  feel  ourselves  unscathed :  it  is  our  doom, 
And  we  by  patient  sufferance  keep  our  souls. 

Then  follows  the  surprise  of  the  court,  in 
which  she  defends  herself  with  gentle  dig 
nity,  but  is  disgraced  and  imprisoned.  Pul 
cheria  visits  her  and  leaves  a  dagger,  and 
the  rooms  ajar ;  and  she  proceeds  to  the  cham 
ber  of  Theodosjus,  determined  to  revenge  her 
wrongs : 

Eud.  The  stillness  of  this  room  is  most  terrible  ! 
I  wish  that  he  would  move. 

[*SVw  lifts  the  citi^^cr  utul  appt  ouches  the  c^ntch 

Oh,  the  long,  long,  eternal  sleep  !  He  stirs  !  now— 
No,  he  sleeps.     'Tis  pitiful:   the  jaw  adovvn  ; 
The  loose  brown  flesh  impending  round  the  chu» 
The  eyes,  like  sunken  and  encas  d  balls, 
Shut  in  from  speculation  ;  the  thin  locks, 
All  wantoned  by  the  wind,  do  mock  at  them ! 
Helpless  and  sleeping  with  his  folded  hands 

[She  [urns  •IH-U.J 

Oh,  I  am  glad  to  mark  there  is  no  line 


ELIZABETH    CAKES-SMITH. 


To  win  on  human  love — nor  any  shows 

Nor  prints  of  grand  old  worth  to  plead  for  him ; 

No  imperial  majestv  is  there  — 

No  lion-like  rebuke,  uncurbed  by  s'eep, 

To  shame  me  for  the  deed  that  I  will  do. 

arm  mi  i  lioi.tt  wet-  Aim. 

A  haggard,  pal. id,  weak,  bad  man  asleep! 
Oh,  weakness  !   thou  hast  thy  power  :  a  pity  grows 
Too  terrible  upon  me  ;  it  shields  thee          [locks  ! 
More  than  love  ;  it  pleads  amid   these  whitening 

Then  follows  her  interview  with  her  child, 
and  final  burst  of  feeling,  in  which  she  ex 
pires.  To  her  child  she  says : 

Boy,  thou  wilt  be  a  man  anon,  and  learn 
Hard,  cruel,  manlike  ways  :  thou  wilt  break  hearts, 
And  think  it  brave  pastime ;  thou  wilt  rule  men, 
And  for  the  pleasure  of  thy  petty  will 
Make  pools  of  blood,  and  top  thy  pikes  with  heads  ; 
Burn  cities,  and  condemn  tbe  little  ones 
To  bleed  and  die  within  their  mother's  arms ! 

Child,  (weeping.}  I  will  never  be  so  vile  ;  I  will 
And  merciful  as  thou  hast  taught  me.  [be  brave 

End.  (fondly.}   Wilt  thou,  pretty  dear  !    Thou 

art  a  brave  boy. 

Wilt  always  love  me  !    Look  here  into  mine  eyes : 
My  own  brave  boy,  when  men  shall  evil  speak, 
Defame  and  curse  me,  wilt  thou  forget  to  love  ] 

Child.  Never! 

Eud.  Never,  my  brave  boy ;  and  when  evil  tongues 
Shall  make  thy  mother's  name  a  blush,  wilt  thou, 
Mine  own  dear  child,  wilt  thou  believe '? 

Child.  Never! 

Eud.  My  boy,  dost  thou  remember  thy  poor  dove, 
Thy  white-winged  dove,  which  the  fell  hawk  pur- 
And  sprinkled  all  the  marble  with  his  blood  1  [sued, 

Child,  (sobbing.}   My  poor,  dear  dove  ! 

Eud.  Ay,  thine  innocent  dove  ! 
Listen,  child  !     In  the  long  hereafter  years, 
Wilt  thou  remember  me  as  that  poor  dove, 
Hawked  down  and  done  to  death  by  cruel  hands  ] 
Think  this,  and  God  himself  will  bless  thee  ! 
To  Anthemius,  who  urges  her  to  speak  the 
word,  and  he  will  avenge  her  and  raise  her 
to  the  throne,  she  says : 

That  little  word  would  yawn  a  gulf  beneath  my 
No  more  :  that  ready  dagger  told  its  bad  tale,  [feet. 

But  I  have  closed  the  well  of  blackness  up 

Have  seen  the  pitying  angel  pleading 

In  the  locks  of  him,  the  weak  and  unloved  one, 

Till  my  uplifted  dagger  fell.     I  wept 

Tears  of  unmingled  pity — aching  tears! 

Empire  has  long  since1  faded  from  my  thought: 

The  nearer  view  of  an  eternal  world 

Makes  my  poor,  injured  name  a  nothingness; 

A  mother's  love  alone  survives  the  wreck. 

The  reverse  of  these  painful  scenes  is  the 
love  of  Manlius  and  Helena,  in  which  sim 
ple  affections  and  every-day  perceptions  take 
the  piace  of  more  profound  emotions.  The 
character  of  Petrus  gives  opportunity  for 
nunint  humor  as  well  as  efficient  advance- 
incut  of  the  plot. 


Mrs.  Oakes-JSmi th's  next  work  was  Jacob 
Leisler,  a  Tragedy.  Its  general  character 
will  be  inferred  from  its  title.  There  is  not 
perhaps  in  American  history  a  finer  subject 
for  dramatic  illustration  than  the  revolution 
in  New  York  in  1680,  but  hitherto  it  had 
failed  of  attention  from  any  author  of  ade 
quate  abilities.  The  story  is  in  some  re 
spects  like  that  of  Massaniello,  but  Leisler 
was  a  gentleman,  and  was  never,  like  the 
Neapolitan,  made  "drunk  with  power,"but 
was  all  through  the  important  scenes  of  his 
elevation,  administration,  and  overthrow,  a 
calm,  sagacious,  and  brave  man,  equal  to 
anything  within  the  scope  of  lawful  action 
or  experience-suggesting  probabilities  that 
might  be  demanded  for  the  common  welfare. 
The  interest  of  the  play  turns  largely  upon 
a  striking  underplot  of  domestic  life  which 
much  affects  and  hastens  the  political  de 
nouement.  The  heroine,  Elizabeth  Howard, 
is  an  original  and  noble  creation,  and  the  vi 
cissitudes  of  her  life  give  occasion  for  dis 
plays  of  lofty  sentiment  and  careful  analysis 
of  the  heart,  in  scenes  where  tenderness  be 
comes  pathos,  devotion  sublimity,  and  the 
illustrations  of  a  passionate  fancy  kindle  up 
on  the  confines  of  imagination.  In  England 
she  has  been  married  to  a  man  named  Slough- 
ter,  from  whom,  for  reasons  developed  in  the 
play,  she  has  separated  and  fled  to  America, 
where  she  keeps  the  secret  of  her  early  his 
tory,  and  has  been  for  some  time  happily 
married  to  Leisler,  when  —  he  meantime 
having  become  the  people's  governor  —  she 
hears  that  tSloughter  has  arrived  on  the  coast 
to  demand  the  seals  of  the  province  for  the 
crown.  The  following  scene  here  succeeds, 
an  interview  between  Elizabeth  and  an  old . 
and  confidential  servant: 

ELIZABETH  and  HANN'AH. 

Eliz.  Nay,  it  must  be  told  :  he  might  hear  of  it 
In  the  market-place,  or  on  the  battle-field. 
Leave  me,  my  good  Hannah. 

Hun.  Oh,  dearest  madam  !  you  are  so  still — 
Eliz.  Leave  me — it  were  best.  [Exit  HANNAH. 
How  mournfully,  how  yearningly  have  I 
Longed  for  thy  presence,  velvet-footed  Peace ! 
The  drudging  housewife  singing  at  her  toil 
I  have  most  envied;  and  the  market  dame, 
Content  with  her  small  gains,  and  with  the  chcei 
Homely  but  hearty  of  the  wayside  boor, 
Provokes  me  to  a  spleen.     Oh,  thou  lowly  [morn, 
Common  flesh,  braced  by  the  rosy,  sweet-breathed 
Could  yet  but  see  the  ruby-girdled  heart, 
How  would  ye  shrink  with  dread,  and  bless  the  lol 

Of  honest  toil ! 

I  do  forget  the  secret  of  my  grief. 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


Enter  LKISr.F.ll,  htirri-d't/. 

Leis.  Mv  sweet  wife,  them  art  fit  to  wear  a  crown ! 
I'll  give  thee  what  is  better:  thou  dost  rule 
Him  who  rules  the  people  by  their  own  free  choice. 
Look  up,  dearest !  I  am  the  people's  king — 
Not  king — nay,  God  forbid,  in  this  great  land ! — 
But  what  ails  thee,  sweet  1  these  times  oppress  thee. 

[.Vre*  the  letter. 

A  letter  ?    well,  put  it  by — I  'II  none  of  it ; 
I  shall  be  much  abroad — shall  see  thee  less — • 
So  we  will  seize  the  present  bliss  as  sure. 
How  beautiful  thou  art,  and  yet  so  pale, 
So  very  sad  !      What  is  it,  love  ? 

Eliz.  The  vase  of  life  is  rarely  garland-crowned. 

Leis.  Nay,  dearest,  thou  dost  think  me  ambitious, 
And  tremblest  lest  the  household  a 'tar  dim. 

Eliz.  Nay,  fill  thee  wuh  great  thoughts,  and  me 
forget. 

Leis.  Thou  dost  reproach  me,  love ;  it  can  not  be. 

Eliz.  Dost  love  me,  Leisler  ? 

Leis.  Love  thee,  Bess  ]  To  doatingness,  to  mad 
ness  ! 

Eliz.  Because  that  I  am  fair,  and  true,  and  good  1 

Leis.  A  very  ange, ;  nay,  better,  an  all,  all  wo 
man  1 

Eliz.  Dost  love  me,  Leisler  1 

Leis.  My  own  wife,  thou  knowest  I  do  love  thee. 

Eliz.  I  love  to  hear  thee  say  it :  I  will  remember. 

Leis.  Thou  art  ill ;  thy  hands  cold — thy  cheek  so 

pale ! 
These  times  are  too  much  for  thee. 

Eliz.  Dost  love  me,  Leisler  ] 

Leis.  Ah,  Bess,  dear  Bess,  thou  art  ill .     Dost 
love  me  1 

Eliz.  Love  thee  1  words  have  no  meaning  to  my 

deep  love ! 

It  hath  purged  me  from  the  weakness  of  my  sex, 
And  made  me  new  create  in  thee.     Love  thee  1 
I  had  not  lived  until  I  knew  thee ! 

Love  thee  1     Oh Oh Oh  !     [  Throws  herself  into  Ids  arms. 

Leis.  My  wife,  my  love,  what  has  moved  thee 
thus  1 

Eliz.  Ah,  the  letter!  shall  I  tell  it  thee] 

Leis.  Yes — let  me  know  the  worst. 

Eliz.  The  worst  1 

Leis.  Yes,  the  worst :  it  can  not  touch  our  love. 

Eliz.  Touch  our  love  1 

Leis.  Nay,  the  letter 

Eliz.  I  have  a  friend,  who  was  once  exceeding 

fair. 

They  tell  me  she  is  wan  and  changed  now. 
Poor  thing  !  she  broke  the  heart  of  him  she  loved  : 
And  she  did  love  so  wel! — as  I  love  thee  !        \weep*. 

Leis.  My  poor  Bess !  do  not  tell  it  now. 

Eliz.  I  must  tell  it  thee.     Well,  she  was  wedded, 
A  simple  child,  with  childhood's  vacant  heart. 
The  days  wore  on  ;  the  night  succeeded  day  ; 
And  she  did  loathe  him  in  her  very  soul, 
And  loathed  herself  to  such  vile  bondage  held. 
She  left  him  ! 

Leis.  The  tale  should  not  be  in  thy  mouth,  sweet 
wife. 

Eliz.  She  did  not  love  another 

Leis.  Had  she  not  felt  the  stirring  of  a  life 
Within  her  own  1   small,  pleading,  upward  hands, 
Or  piping  voice  steal  to  a  mother's  heart  1 


Eliz.  Oh,  never,  never  !     I  did  know  her  wM! . 
She  would  have  died  sooner  than  leave  her  chi  d 
To  stranger  hands;  nay,  more  than  this,  had  lived  — 
In  bitterness  had  cherished  life  for  it ; 
Not  all  the  deadening  miseries  that  wait 
On  constrained  love — not  all  the  tortures  felt 
By  th'  recoiling  nerve  and  shrinking  sense — 
Not  all  the  blight  and  famine  of  the  soul 
Had  moved  her  to  forget  a  mother's  love. 

Leis.  'Tis  a  sad  tale,  Bess  ;  think  no  more  of  it, 

Eliz.  This  is  not  all.    Years  passed,  and  she  did 
love 

Leis.  Talk  no  more  of  her ;  we  can  but  pity. 

Eliz.  (drawing  back.}  This  is  not  all :  she  buried 

up  the  past ; 
She  loved  and  was  beloved,  and  held  the  secret  still. 

Leis.  She  was  infamously  perjured. 

Eliz.  She  married  him  she  loved 

Leis.  No  more  of  the  vile  adultress  ! 

Eliz.  Leisler,  Leisler,  I  am  that  woman  ! 

Leis.  (tenderly?)  Alas !   she  has  gone  mad  ! — • 
My  fond  wife ! 

Eliz.  Would  to  God  it  were  madness,  but  'tis 


true ! 

[T^KISf.KH  staggers  to  one  side ; 


•  tlirmes  herself  at  hi 


Oh,  I  have  killed  thee — killed  thee  !  Speak  to  me, 
Curse  me — stab  me  to  the  heart — but  look  not  thus ! 
See  here  !  [  Opens  her  bosom.']  To  die  by  thy  hand 

were  joy  indeed  ^ 

I'll  kiss  the  dagger's  point,  and  kiss  thy  hand — 
And  forfeit  heaven  itself,  if,  ere  I  die, 
Thou  wilt  but  smile  and  kiss  me  once  again ! 

There  are  in  this  tragedy  several  scenes 
of  great  power,  among  which  are  that  in 
which  Elizabeth  poisons  her  child,  and  that 
in  which  she  discovers  herself  to  the  hus 
band  whom  she  had  abandoned,  to  plead  for 
the  life  of  the  husband  by  whom  she  has  her 
self  been  cast  off,  abhorred  and  contemned. 

The  prose  writings  of  Mrs.  Oakes-Smith 
—  for  the  most  part  printed  in  magazines 
and  other  miscellanies  —  are  characterized 
by  qualities  similar  to  those  which  mark 
her  poetry.  Her  most  elaborate  performan 
ces  are  The  Western  Captive,  a  novel,  pub 
lished  in  1842,  and  her  last  work,  recently 
issued  by  Putnam,  with  illustrations  by  Dar- 
ley,  entitled  The  Salamander,  a  Legend  for 
Christmas,  purporting  to  be  by  "  Ernest  Hel- 
fenstein,"  a  name  under  which  she  has  fre 
quently  written. 

The  great  and  peculiar  merits  of  Mia 
Oakes-Smith  are  so  fully  illustrated  in  what 
has  been  remarked  in  ihe  preceding  pages, 
and  in  the  liberal  extracts  that  are  here  given 
from  her  works,  that  little  remains  to  be  ad 
ded  upon  the  subject.  In  the  drama,  in  the 
sonnet,  and  in  miscellaneous  poems  of  im 
agination  and  fancy,  she  has  vindicated  her 
right  to  a  place  among  the  first  poets  of  her  sex. 


184 


ELIZABETH    ()  A  K  E  S  -  S  M I T  H. 


THK   ACORN". 

LONG  years  ago,  when  our  headlands  hroke 

The  silent  wave  below, 
And  bird-song  then  the  morn  awoke 

Where  towers  a  city  now ; 
When  the  red  man  saw  on  every  cliff, 

Half  seen  and  half  in  shade, 
A  tiny  form,  or  a  pearly  skiff, 

That  sought  the  forest  glade — 

An  acorn  fell  from  an  old  oak-tree, 

And  lay  on  the  frosty  ground  : 
"  Oh,  what  shall  the  fate  of  the  acorn  be  1" 

Was  whispered  al!  around, 
By  low-toned  voices,  chiming  sweet, 

Like  a  floweret's  bell  when  swung — 
And  grasshopper  steeds  were  gathering  fleet, 

And  the  beetle's  hoofs  uprung; 

For  the  woodland  Fays  came  sweeping  past 

In  the  pale  autumnal  ray, 
Where  the  forest-leaves  were  falling  fast, 

And  the  acorn  quivering  lay ; 
They  came  to  tell  what  its  fate  should  be, 

Though  life  was  unrevealed  ; 
For  life  is  a  ho'y  mystery, 

Wrhere'er  it  is  concealed. 

They  came  with  gifts  that  should  life  bestow: 

The  dew  and  the  living  air — 
The  bane  that  should  work  it  deadly  wo — • 

The  little  men  had  there. 
In  the  gray  moss-cup  was  the  mildew  brought, 

The  worm  in  a  rose-leaf  rolled, 
And  many  things  with  destruction  fraught, 

That  its  doom  were  quickly  told. 
But  it  needed  not ;  for  a  bless  :d  fate 

Was  the  acorn's  meant  to  be  : 
The  spirits  of  earth  should  its  birth-time  wait, 

And  watch  o'er  its  destiny. 
To  Hor  OF  THE  SHELL  was  the  task  assigned 

To  bury  the  acorn  deep, 
Away  from  the  frost  and  searching  wind, 

When  they  through  the  forest  sweep. 
Twas  a  dainty  sight,  the  small  thing's  toil, 

As.  bowed  beneath  the  s\  ade, 
He  balanced  his  gossamer  wings  the  while 

To  peep  in  the  pit  he  made. 
A  thimble's  depth  it  was  scarcely  deep, 

When  the  spade  aside  he  threw, 
And  rolled  the  acorn  away  to  sleep 

In  the  hush  of  dropping  dew. 
The  spring-time  came  with  its  fresh,  warm  air, 

And  gush  of  woodland  song; 
The  dew  came  down,  and  the  rain  was  there, 

And  the  sunshine  rested  long: 
Then  softly  the  black  earth  turned  aside, 

The  old  leaf  arching  o'er, 
And  up,  where  the  last  year's  leaf  was  dried, 

Came  the  acorn-shell  once  more. 
With  coiled  stem,  and  a  pale-green  hue, 

It  looked  but  a  feeble  thing; 
Then  deeply  its  root  abroad  it  threw, 

Its  strength  from  the  earth  to  bring. 
The  woodland  sprites  are  gathering  round, 

Rejoiced  that  the  task  is  done — 


That  another  life  from  the  noisome  ground 
Is  up  to  the  pleasant  sun. 

The  young  child  passed  with  a  careless  tread, 

And  the  germ  had  well  nigh  crushed ; 
But  a  spider,  launched  on  her  airy  thread, 

The  cheek  of  the  stripling  brushed. 
He  little  knew,  as  he  started  back, 

How  the  acorn's  fate  was  hung 
On  the  very  point  in  the  spider's  track 

Where  the  web  on  his  cheek  was  flung. 

The  autumn  came — it  stood  alone, 

And  bowed  as  the  wind  passed  by — 
The  wind  that  uttered  its  dirgelike  moan 

In  the  old  oak  sere  and  dry  ; 
The  hollow  branches  creaked  and  swayed, 

But  they  bent  not  to  the  blast, 
For  the  stout  oak-tree,  where  centuries  played, 

Was  sturdy  to  the  last. 

But  the  sapling  had  no  strength  as  yet 

Such  peril  to  abide, 
And  a  thousand  guards  were  round  it  set 

To  evil  turn  aside. 
A  hunter  boy  beheld  the  shoot, 

And  an  idle  prompting  grew 
To  sever  the  sta'k  from  the  spreading  root, 

And  his  knife  at  once  he  drew. 

His  hand  was  stayed ;  he  knew  not  why : 

'Twas  a  presence  breathed  around — 
A  pleading  from  the  deep-blue  sky, 

And  up  from  the  teeming  ground. 
It  told  of  the  care  that  had  lavished  been 

In  sunshine  and  in  dew — 
Of  the  many  things  that  had  wrought  a  screen 

When  peril  around  it  grew. 

It  to'd  of  the  oak  that  once  had  bowed, 

As  feeble  a  thing  to  see ; 
But  now,  when  the  storm  was  raging  loud, 

It  wrestled  mightily. 
There 's  a  deeper  thought  on  the  hunter's  brow, 

A  new  love  at  his  heart ; 
And  he  ponders  much,  as  with  footsteps  slow 

He  turns  him  to  depart. 

Up  grew  the  twig,  with  a  vigor  bold, 

In  the  shape  of  the  parent  tree, 
And  the  old  oak  knew  that  his  doom  was  told, 

When  the  sapling  sprang  so  free. 
Then  the  fierce  winds  came,  and  they  raging  tore 

The  hollow  limbs  away ; 
And  the  damp  moss  crept  from  the  earthy  floor 

Round  the  trunk,  time  worn  and  gray. 
The  young  oak  grew,  and  proudly  grew, 

For  its  roots  were  deep  and  strong; 
And  a  shadow  broad  on  the  earth  it  threw, 

And  the  sunshine  lingered  long 
On  its  glossy  leaf,  where  the  flickering  light 

Was  flung  to  the  evening  sky ; 
And  the  wild  bird  sought  to  its  airy  height, 

And  taught  her  young  to  fly/ 
In  acorn-time  came  the  truant  boy, 

With  a  wild  and  eager  look, 
And  he  marked  the  tree  with  a  wondering  joy, 

As  the  wind  the  great  limbs  shook. 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


185 


He  looked  where  the  moss  on  the  north  side  grew, 

The  gnarled  arms  outspread, 
The  solemn  shadow  the  huge  tree  threw, 

As  it  towered  above  his  head : 

Arid  vaguc-like  fears  the  boy  surround, 

In  the  shadow  of  that  tree ; 
So  growing  up  from  the  darksome  ground, 

Like  a  giant  mystery. 
His  heart  beats  quick  to  the  squirrel's  tread 

On  the  withered  leaf  and  dry, 
And  he  lifts  not  up  his  awe-struck  head 

As  the  eddying  wind  sweeps  by. 

All  regally  the  stout  oak  stood, 

In  its  vigor  and  its  pride  ; 
A  monarch  owned  in  the  solemn  wood, 

With  a  sceptre  spreading  wide — 
No  more  in  the  wintry  blast  to  bow, 

Or  rock  in  the  summer  breeze ; 
But  draped  in  green,  or  starlike  snow, 

Reign  king  of  the  forest  trees. 

A  thousand  years  it  firmly  grew, 

A  thousand  blasts  defied  ; 
And,  mighty  in  strength,  its  broad  arms  threw 

A  shadow  dense  and  wide. 
Change  came  to  the  mighty  things  of  earth — 

Old  empires  passed  away  ; 
Of  the  generations  that  had  birth, 

O  Death  !  where,  where  are  they  1 

Yet  fresh  and  green  the  brave  oak  stood, 

Nor  dreamed  it  of  decay, 
Though  a  thousand  times  in  the  autumn  wood 

Its  leaves  on  the  pale  earth  lay. 
It  grew  where  the  rocks  were  bursting  out 

From  the  thin  and  heaving  soil — • 
Where  the  ocean's  roar  and  the  sailor's  shout 

Were  mingled  in  wild  turmoil ; 

Where  the  far-off  sound  of  the  restless  deep 

Came  up  with  a  booming  swell ; 
And  the  white  foam  dashed  to  the  rocky  steep, 

But  it  loved  the  tumult  well. 
Then  its  huge  limbs  creaked  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  joined  in  the  rude  uproar ; 
For  it  loved  the  storm  and  the  lightning's  glare, 

And  the  wave-lashed  iron  shore. 

The  bleaching  bones  of  the  sea-bird's  prey 

Were  heaped  on  the  rocks  below ; 
And  the  bald-head  eagle,  fierce  and  gray, 

Looked  off  from  its  topmost  bough. 
Where  the  shadow  lay  on  the  quiet  wave 

The  light  boat  often  swung, 
And  the  stout  ship,  saved  from  the  ocean-grave, 

Her  cable  round  it  flung. 

A  sound  comes  down  in  the  forest  trees, 

And  echoing  from  the  hill ; 
It  floats  far  off  on  the  summer  breeze, 

And  the  shore  resounds  it  shrill. 
Lo !   the  monarch  tree  no  more  shall  stand 

Like  a  watchtower  of  the  main — • 
A  giant  mark  of  a  giant  land 

That  may  not  come  again. 

The  stout  old  oak! — 'Twas  a  worthy  tree. 
And  the  builder  marked  it  out ; 


He  smiled  its  angled  limbs  to  see, 

As  he  measured  the  trunk  about. 

Already  to  him  was  a  gallant  bark 
Careering  the  rolling  deep, 

And  in  sunshine,  calm,  or  tempest  dark, 
Her  way  she  will  proudly  keep. 

The  chisel  clicks,  and  the  hammer  rings, 

The  merry  jest  goes  round  ; 
While  he  who  longest  and  loudest  sings 

Is  the  stoutest  workman  found. 
With  jointed  rib  and  trunnelled  plank 

The  work  goes  gayly  on, 
And  light-spoke  oaths,  when  the  glass  they  drank, 

Are  heard  till  the  task  is  done. 

She  sits  on  the  stocks,  the  skeleton  ship, 

With  her  oaken  ribs  all  bare, 
And  the  child  looks  up  with  parted  lip, 

As  it  gathers  fuel  there  : 
With  brimless  hat,  the  barefoot  bov 

Looks  round  with  strange  amaze, 
And  dreams  of  a  sailor's  life  of  joy 

Are  mingling  in  that  gaze. 

With  graceful  waist  and  carvings  brave 

The  trim  hull  waits  the  sea — 
She  proudly  stoops  to  the  crested  wave, 

While  round  go  the  cheerings  three. 
Her  prow  swells  up  from  the  yesty  deep, 

Where  it  plunged  in  foam  and  spray: 
And  the  glad  waves  gathering  round  her  sweep 

And  buoy  her  in  their  play. 

Thou  wert  nobly  reared,  0  heart  of  oak ! 

In  the  sound  of  the  ocean  roar, 
Where  the  surging  wave  o'er  the  rough  rock  broke, 

And  bellowed  along  the  shore  : 
And  how  wilt  thou  in  the  storm  rejoice, 

With  the  wind  through  spar  and  shroud, 
To  hear  a  sound  like  the  forest  voice, 

When  the  blast  was  raging  loud ! 

With  snow-white  sail,  and  streamer  gay, 

She  sits  like  an  ocean-sprite, 
Careering  on  her  trackless  way, 

In  sunshine  or  midnight : 
Her  course  is  laid  with  fearless  skill, 

For  brave  hearts  man  the  helm ; 
And  the  joyous  winds  her  canvass  fill : 

Shall  the  wave  the  stout  ship  whelm  1 

On,  on  she  goes,  where  icebergs  roll, 

Like  floating  cities  by  ; 
Where  meteors  flash  by  the  northern  pole, 

And  the  merry  dancers  fly  ; 
Where  the  glittering  light  is  backward  flung 

From  icy  tower  and  dome, 
And  the  frozen  shrouds  are  gayly  hung 

With  gems  from  the  ocean  foam. 
On  the  Birman  sea  was  her  shadow  cast, 

As  it  lay  like  molten  gold, 
And  her  pendent  shroud  and  towering  mast 

Seemed  twice  on  the  waters  told. 
The  idle  canvass  slowly  swung 

As  the  spicy  breeze  went  by, 
And  strange,  rare  music  around  her  rung 

From  the  palm-tree  growing  nigh- 


180 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


^n,  gallant  ship,  thou  didst  bear  with  thee 

The  gay  and  the  hreaking  heart, 
And  weeping  eyes  looked  out  to  see 

Thy  white-spread  sails  depart. 
And  when  the  rattling  casement  told 

Of  many  a  perilled  ship, 
The  anxious  wife  her  babes  would  fold, 

And  pray  with  trembling  lip. 
The  petrel  whee'ed  in  her  stormy  flight , 

The  wind  piped  shrill  and  high ; 
On  the  topmast  sat  a  pale-blue  light, 

That  flickered  not  to  the  eye  : 
The  black  cloud  came  like  a  banner  down, 

And  down  came  the  shrieking  blast ; 
The  quivering  ship  on  her  beams  is  thrown, 

And  gone  are  helm  and  mast! 
Helmless,  but  on  before  the  gale, 

She  ploughs  the  deep-troughed  wave  : 
A  gurgling  sound — a  phrensied  wail — 

And  the  ship  hath  found  a  grave  ! 
And  thus  is  the  fate  of  the  acorn  told, 

That  fell  from  the  old  oak-tree, 
And  HE  OF  THE  SHELL  in  the  frosty  mould 

Preserved  for  its  destiny. 

THE  DROWNED  MARINER. 


A  MAKIXER  sat  on  the  shrouds  one  night, 

The  wind  was  piping  free  ; 

Now  bright,  now  dimmed  was  the  moonlight  pale, 
And  the  phosphor  gleamed  in  the  wake  of  the  whale, 

As  he  floundered  in  the  sea ; 
The  scud  was  flying  athwart  the  sky, 
The  gathering  winds  went  whistling  by, 
And  the  wave  as  it  towered,  then  fell  hi  spray, 
Looked  an  emerald  wall  in  the  moonlight  ray. 
The  mariner  swayed  and  rocked  on  the  mast, 

But  the  tumult  pleased  him  well; 
Down  the  yawning  wave  his  eye  he  cast, 
And  the  monsters  watched  as  they  hurried  past, 

Or  lightly  rose  and  fell ; 

For  their  broad,  damp  fins  were  under  the  tide, 
And  they  lashed  as  they  passed  the  vessel's  side, 
And  their  filmy  eyes,  all  huge  and  grim, 
Glared  fiercely  up,  and  they  glared  at  him. 
Now  freshens  the  gale,  and  the  brave  ship  goes 

Like  an  uncurbed  steed  along, 
A  sheet  of  flame  is  the  spray  she  throws, 
As  her  gallant  prow  the  water  ploughs 

But  the  ship  is  fleet  and  strong: 
The  topsails  are  reefed  and  the  sails  are  furled, 
And  onward  she  sweeps  o'er  the  watery  world, 
And  dippeth  her  spars  in  the  surging  flood  ; 
But  fhrre  came  no  chill  to  the  mariner's  blood. 
Wildly  she  rocks,  but  he  swinge th  at  ease, 

And  holds  him  by  the  shroud ; 
And  as  she  careens  to  the  crowding  breeze, 
The  gaping  deep  the  mariner  sees, 

And  the  surging  heareth  loud. 
Was  that  a  face,  looking  up  at  him, 
With  its  pallid  cheek  and  its  cold  eyes  dim  ? 
Did  it  beckon  him  down  ]  did  it  call  his  name  ] 
Now  rolleth  the  ship  the  way  whence  it  came. 


The  mariner  looked,  and  he  saw  with  dread, 

A  face  he  knew  too  well ; 

And  the  cold  eyes  glared,  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 
And"  its  long  hair  out  on  the  wave  was  spread, 

Was  there  a  ta'e  to  tell  ? 
The  stout  ship  rocked  with  a  reeling  speed, 
And  the  mariner  groaned,  as  well  he  need, 
For  ever  down,  as  she  plunged  on  her  side, 
The  dead  face  gleamed  from  the  briny  tide. 
Bethink  thee,  manner,  well  of  the  past, 

A  voice  ',alls  loud  for  thee — 
There  's  a  stifled  prayer,  the  first,  the  last, 
The  plunging  ship  on  her  beam  is  cast, 

Oh,  where  shall  thy  burial  be  ? 
Bethink  thee  of  oaths  that  were  lightly  spoken, 
Bethink  thee  of  vows  that  were  lightly  broken, 
Bethink  thee  of  all  that  is  dear  to  thee — 
For  thou  art  alone  on  the  raging  sea  : 
Alone  in  the  dark,  alone  on  the  wave, 

To  buffet  the  storm  alone — 
To  struggle  aghast  at  thy  watery  grave, 

To  struggle,  and  feel  there  is  none  to  sa\e 

God  shield  thee,  helpless  one  ! 
The  stout  limbs  yield,  for  their  strength  is  past, 
The  tremb'ing  hands  on  the  deep  are  cast, 
The  white  brow  gleams  a  moment  more, 
Then  slowly  sinks — the  struggle  is  o'er. 
Down,  down  where  the  storm  is  hushed  to  sleep, 

Where  the  sea  its  dirge  shall  swell, 
Where  the  amber  drops  for  thee  shall  weep, 
And  the  rose-lipped  shell  her  music  keep, 

There  thou  shalt  slumber  well. 
The  gern  and  the  pearl  lie  heaped  at  thy  side, 
They  fell  from  the  neck  of  the  beautiful  bride, 
From  the  strong  man's  lrand,from  the  maiden's  brow, 
As  they  slowly  sunk  to  the  wave  below. 
A  peopled  home  is  the  ocean  bed, 

The  mother  and  child  are  there — 
j    The  fervent  youth  and  the  hoary  head, 
The  maid,  with  her  floating  locks  outspread, 

The  babe  with  its  silken  hair, 
As  the  water  moveth  they  lightly  sway, 
And  the  tranquil  lights  on  their  features  play ; 
And  there  is  each  cherished  and  beautiful  form, 
Away  from  decay,  and  away  from  the  storm. 


TO  THE  HUDSON. 

OH,  river !  gently  as  a  wayward  child 

I  saw  thee  mifl  the  moonlight  hills  at  rest ; 
Capricious  thing,  with  thine  own  beauty  wild, 

How  didst  thou  still  the  throbbings  of  thy  breast! 
Rude  headlands  were  about  thee,  stooping  round, 

As  if  amid  the  hills  to  hold  thy  stav ; 
But  thou  didst  hear  the  far-off  ocean  sound, 

Inviting  thee  from  hill  and  vale  away, 
To  mingle  thy  deep  waters  with  its  own  ; 

And,  at  that  voice,  thy  steps  did  onward  glide, 
Onward  from  echoing  hill  and  valley  lone. 

Like  thine,  oh,  be  my  course — nor  turned  aside, 
While  listing  to  the  soundings  of  a  land, 
That  like  the  ocean  call  invites  me  to  its  strand. 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


is: 


SONNETS. 

I.    POEST. 

WITH  no  fond,  sickly  thirst  for  fame,  I  kneel 

0  goddess  of  the  high-born  art,  to  thee ; 
Not  unto  thee  with  semblance  of  a  zeal 

1  come,  0  pure  and  heaven-eyed  Poesy  ! 
Thou  art  to  me  a  spirit  and  a  love, 

Felt  ever  from  the  time  when  first  the  earth, 
In  its  green  beauty,  and  the  sky  above 

Informed  my  soul  with  joy  too  deep  for  mirth. 
I  was  a  child  of  thine  before  my  tongue 

Could  lisp  its  infant  utterance  unto  thee, 
And  now,  albeit  from  my  harp  are  flung 

Discordant  numbers,  and  the  song  may  be 
That  which  I  would  not,  yet  I  know  that  thou 

The  offering  wilt  not  spurn,while  th  us  to  thee  I  bow. 


II.    THE     BAUD. 

IT  can  not  be,  the  baffled  heart,  in  vain, 
May  seek,  amid  the  crowd,  its  throbs  to  hide ; 
Ten  thousand  other  kindred  pangs  may  bide, 

Yet  not  the  less  will  our  own  griefs  complain. 

Chained  to  our  rock,  the  vulture's  gory  stain 
And  tearing  beak  is  every  moment  rife, 
Renewing  pangs  that  end  but  with  our  life. 

Thence  bursteth  forth  the  gushing  voice  of  song, 
The- soul's  deep  anguish  thence  an  utterance  finds, 
Appealing  to  all  hearts :  and  human  minds 

Bow  down  in  awe :  thence  doth  the  Bard  belong 

Unto  all  times :  the  laurel  steeped  in  wrong 

Unsought  is  his :  his  soul  demanded  bread,    [stead. 

And  ye,  charmed  with  the  voice,  gave  but  a  stone  in- 
^ 

III.    AX    IXCIDEXT. 

A  SIMPLE  thing,  yet  chancing  as  it  did, 

When  life  was  bright  with  its  illusive  dreams, 
A  pledge  and  promise  seemed  beneath  it  hid ; 

The  ocean  lay  before  me,  tinged  with  beams 
That  lingering  draped  the  west,  a  wavering  stir, 

And  at  my  feet  down  fell  a  worn,  gray  quill ; 
An  eagle,  high  above  the  darkling  fir, 

With  steady  flight,  seemed  there  to  take  his  fill 
Of  that  pure  ether  breathed  by  him  alone. 
^  O  nob:e  bird  !  why  didst  thou  loose  for  me 
Thy  eagle  plume  ?  still  unessayed,  unknown 

Must  be  that  pathway  fearless  winged  by  thee ; 
I  ask  it  not,  no  lofty  flight  be  mine, 
I  would  not  soar  like  thee,  in  loneliness  to  pine  ! 

IV.    THE    UXATTA1XED. 

Axn  is  this  life?  and  are  we  born  for  this  1 
To  follow  phantoms  that  elude  the  grasp, 
Or  whatsoe'er  secured,  within  our  clasp, 

To  withering  lie,  as  if  each  earth'y  kiss  [meet. 
Were  doomed  Death's  shuddering  touch  alone  to 

O  Life  !  hast  thou  reserved  no  cup  of  bliss  ? 
Must  still  THE  UVATTAIXEI)  beguile  our  feet? 

The  UXATTAIXEII  with  yearnings  fill  the  breast, 

That  rob,  for  ay,  the  spirit  of  its  rest  ? 
Yes,  this  is  Life ;  and  everywhere  we  meet, 
Not  victor  crowns,  but  wailings  of  defeat ; 

^  et  faint  thou  not,  thou  dost  apply  a  test 
That  shall  incite  thee  onward,  upward  still, 
The  present  can  not  sate  nor  e'er  thy  spirit  fill. 


V.    THE   WIFE. 

ALL  day,  like  some  sweet  bird,  content  to  sing 

In  its  small  cage,  she  moveth  to  and  fro — 
And  ever  and  anon  will  upward  spring 

To  her  sweet  lips,  fresh  from  the  fount  below, 
The  murmured  melody  of  pleasant  thought, 

Unconscious  uttered,  gentle-toned  and  low. 
Light  household  duties,  evermore  inwrought 

With  placid  fancies  of  one  trusting  heart 
That  lives  but  in  her  smile,  and  turns 

From  life's  cold  seeming  and  the  busy  mart, 
With  tenderness,  that  heavenward  ever  yearns 
To  be  refreshed  where  one  pure  altar  burns. 

Shut  out  from  hence,  the  mockery  of  life,    [wife. 

Thus  liveth  she  content,  the  meek,  fond,  trusting 

VI.    RELIGIOX. 

ALOXE,  yet  not  alone,  the  heart  doth  brood 
With  a  sad  fondness  o'er  its  hidden  grief  ; 

B  -oods  with  a  miser's  joy,'  wherein  relief 
Jomes  with  a  semblance  of  its  own  quaint  mood. 

How  many  hearts  this  point  of  life  have  passed ! 

And  some  a  train  of  light  behind  have  cast, 
To  show  us  what  hath  been,  and  what  may  be ; 

That  thus  have  suffered  all  the  wise  and  good, 

Thus  wept  and  prayed,  thus  struggled  and  were  free. 
So  doth  the  pilot,  trackless  through  the  deep, 
Unswerving  by  the  stars  his  reckoning  keep, 

He  moves  a  highway  not  untried  before, 
And  thence  he  courage  gains,  and  joy  doth  reap, 

Unfaltering  lays  his  course,  and  leaves  behind  the 
shore. 

VI T.    THE    DREAM. 

I  niiKAMKi)  last  night,  that  I  myself  did  lay 

Within  the  grave,  and  after  stood  and  wept, 

My  spirit  sorrowed  where  its  ashes  s'ept ! 
'T  was  a  strange  dream,  and  yet  methinks  it  may 

Prefigure  that  which  is  akin  to  truth. 

How  sorrow  we  o'er  perished  dreams  of  youth, 
High  hopes  and  aspirations  doomed  to  be 
Crushed  and  o'ermastered  by  earth's  destiny  ! 

Fame,  that  the  spirit  loathing  turns  to  ruth— 
And  that  deluding  faith  so  loath  to  part, 
That  earth  will  shrine  for  us  one  kindred  heart ! 

Oh,  'tis  the  ashes  of  such  things  that  wring 
Tears  from  the  eyes — hopes  like  to  these  depart, 

And  we  bow  down  in  dread,  o'ershadowed  by 
Death's  wing  ! 

VIII.    WAYFARERS. 

EARTH  careth  for  her  own — the  fox  lies  down 

In  her  warm  bosom,  and  it  asks  no  more. 
The  bird,  content,  broods  in  its  lowly  nest, 
Or  its  fine  essence  stirred,  with  wing  outflown, 

Circ'es  in  airy  rounds  to  heaven's  own  door, 
And  folds  again  its  plume  upon  her  breast, 

Ye,  too,  for  whom  her  palaces  arise, 
Whose  Ty  rian  vestments  sweep  the  kindred  ground, 

Whose  golden  chalice  Ivy-Bacchus  dies, 

She,  kindly  Mother,  liveth  in  your  eyes, 
And  no  strange  anguish  may  your  lives  astound. 

But  ye,  O  pale  lone  watchers  for  the  true, 
She  knoweth  not.  In  Her  ve  have  not  found 

Place  for  your  stricken  head,  wet  with  the  mitl 
night  dew. 


IS8 


ELIZABETH    O  ARE  S-SMITH. 


IX.    HELOISE    TO    ARELARI). 

MUST  I  not  love  thee  ]  when  the  heart  would  leap 
With  all  its  stirring  pulses  unto  thee, 
Must  it  be  staved  1 — is  not  the  spirit  free  7 

Can  human  bonds  or  bars  its  essence  keep  ? 

Or  drills  and  banes  hold  love  in  deathful  sleep! 
Love  thee  I.  must — yet  I  content  will  be, 
Like  the  pale  victim,  who,  on  bended  knee, 

Presents  the  cha  ice  which  his  blood  must  steep, 
And  prostrate  on  the  altar  falls  to  die  : 

So  let  me  knee! — a  guilt  e*s  votary  sink — 

Prayer  o.i  rny  lip,  and  love  within  my  heart: 
Thus  from  these  willing  eyes  recede  the  sky — 

Thus  let  these  sighs  my  ebbing  life-blood  drink, 
May  I  but  love  thee  still,  but  feel  how  dear  thou  art ! 


X.    IIKLOISE   TO   ABELAttD,   (CONTINUED.) 

shouldst  thou  hold  thy  tenderness  aside 
From  all  thv  lavishmcnt  of  other  gifts  ] 
As  if  thou  wouldst  resort  to  means  and  shifts, 
Thy  dearest,  noblest  attribute  to  hide 
From  her,  thy  soul's  sequestered,  nun-made  bride  1 
Thou  hast  enshrined  her,  like  the  star  that  drifts 
Alone  in  space — the  worshipper  who  lifts 
His  adoration,  stayetli  not  the  tide  [thou  1 

Of  his  full  heart — ah  !  wherefore  then  shouldst 
We  do  our  natures  unto  those  attune, 
Most  prodigal  of  greatness — and  we  feel 
That  they  do  us  with  nobleness  endow, 
As  did  the  lavish  moon  Endyrnion  :        [ous  zeal  1 
Then  wherefore  starve  the  heart  with  thrift  of  jeal- 


XI.    DESPONDENCY. 

WURN  thou  didst  leave  me  Hope,  why  didst  thou 
In  place  of  thy  sweet  presence,  leave  Despair,  ("not, 
With  her  grim  visage  and  disordered  hair  ? 

The  past,  the  future,  then  had  been  forgot — 

The  soul,  concentred  on  its  blasted  lot, 
Had  rested  mute  and  desolate  of  care — 
Had  ceased  to  question  where  its  treasures  were, 

And  roamed  no  more  the  melancholy  spot : 
But  now,  too  much  remembering  of  the  past ; 

So  huge  the  weight  of  gloom  around  me  spread, 
That  I,  like  one  within  a  charnel  cast, 

Hear  but  the  dirges  ringing  for  the  dead — 
Feel  all  the  pangs  of  life,  and  thought,  arid  breath, 
Yet  walk  I  all  the  time  with  hand  in  hand  of  Death. 


XII.    LOVE. 


THERE  may  be  death  or  peril — grief  and  shame — 
Cold,  hollow  human  bonds ;  and  stony  walls, 
And  stonier  hearts ;  and  solemn  hackwood  calls, 

Heard  in  the  midnight  silence,  when  our  name 

<  'omes  to  the  startled  car  in  cadenced  blame  : 
Friends  may  fall,  as  the  dried  leaf  in  autumn  falls: 
We,  in  blanched  moonlight  stand,  in  desolate  halls, 

H.-arinjf  dead  branches  grate  the  window  frame, 
Under  the  pressure  of  the  winter  wind — 

Y el  Love  will  dare  a'l  these,  and  more :  ah  !  more 

Outlive  the  changed  look,  wrench  back  despair, 
Knd  in  his  dim,  deserted  chambers  find 

The  wherewithal  to  comfort — to  restore —    [there. 
God's  manna  find  left  by  Archangel  footprints 


XIII.    "LOOK     NOT     BEHIND    THEE. 

MKSEKMED,  as  I  did  walk  a  crystal  wall, 
Translucent  in  the  hue  of  rosy  morn, 
And  saw  Eurydice,  from  Orpheus  torn, 

Lift  her  white  brow  from  out  its  heavy  pall, 

With  sweet  lips  echoing  his  melodious  call, 
And  following  him,  love-led  and  music-borne, 
A  sharp  and  broken  cry — and  she  was  gone  : 

Thou  fairest  grief — thou  saddest  tvpe  of  all 
Our  sorrowing  kind,  oh,  lost  Eurydice  ! 

Thy  deathful  cry  thrilled  in  mine  every  vein, 
When  Orpheus  turned  him  back,  thus  losing  thee ' 

His  broken  lute  and  melancholy  plain 
All  time  prolongs — the  still  unceasing  flow 
Of  unavailing  grief  and  a  regretful  wo. 


XIV.    CHAIUTT,  IN   DESPAIR  OF  JUSTICE. 

OUTWEARIED  with  the  littleness  and  spite — 
The  falsehood  and  the  treachery  of  men, 
I  cried,  "  Give  me  but  justice" — thinking  then 

I  meekly  craved  a  common  boon,  which  might 

Most  easily  be  granted  : — soon  the  light 
Of  deeper  truth  grew  on  my  wandering  ken, 
(Escaped  the  baneful  damps  of  stagnant  fen,) 

And  then  I  saw  that,  in  my  pride  bedight, 
I  claimed  from  weak-eyed  man  the  gift  of  Heaven : 

God's  own  great  vested  right ! — and  I  grew  calm, 
W7ith  folded  hands,  like  stone  to  Patience  given, 

And  pityings  of  meek  love-distilling  balm — 
And  now  I  wait  in  hopeful  trust  to  be 
All  known  to  God,  and  ask  of  man  sweet  charity 


XV.    THE    GREAT    AI3I. 

EARTH  beareth  many  pangs  of  guilt  and  wrong, 
Hunger,  and  chains,  and  nakedness,  all  cry 
From  out  the  ground  to  Him  whose  searching  eye 

Sees  blood,  like  slinking  serpents,  steal  along 

The  dusty  way,  rank  grass,  and  flowers  among 
Histhedread  voice,"  Where  is  thy  brother?"  Why 

Sit  we  here,  weaving  our  common  griefs  to  song, 
When  that  eternal  call  forth  bids  us  fly 

From  self,  and  wake  to  human  good  1 — the  near. 
The  humble  it  may  be,  yet  God-appointed  : 

If  greatly  girded,  go — unknowing  fear — 
With  solemn  trust,  thou  missioned  and  anointed. 

Oh,  glorious  task  !  made  free  from  petty  strife, 

Thy  Truth  become  an  Act — thy  Aspiration,  Life. 


XVI.    MIDNIGHT. 

AFAH  in  this  deep  dell,  by  the  seashore, 
So,  resteth  all  things  from  the  summer  heat, 
That  I  the  Naiads  hear  from  limber  feet 

Let  fall  the  crystal  as  in  days  of  yore  : 

Old  sea-gods  lean  upon  the  rock,  and  pour 
The  waves  adown  ;  the  light-winged  zephyrs  greet 
The  tittering  nymphs,  that  from  their  green  retreat 

With  pearl-shells  play  and  listen  to  their  roar: 
Endymion  sure  on  yonder  headland  sleeps, 

Where  Dian's  veil  floats  out  a  silver  sheen — 
And  large-eyed  Pan  amid  the  lotus  peeps, 

Where  glea?ns  an  ivory  arm  the  leaves  between. 
Nor  stirs  a  restless  hoof,  lest  his  bit;  heart, 
O'erfilled  with  love,  should  si  umbering  Echo  start. 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


189 


XVII.    JEALOUSY. 

ALAS  !  for  he  who  loves  too  oft  may  be 

Like  one  who- hath  a  precious  treasure  sealed, 
Whereto  another  hath  obtained  the  key : 

And  he,  poor  soul !  who  there  his  a'.l  concealed, 
Lives  blindly  on,  nor  knows  that  mite  by  mite 

It  dvvindleth  from  his  grasp ;  or  if  a  thought 
That  something  hath  been  lost  his  mind  affright. 

•He  puts  it  by  as  evil  fancy  wrought. 
Yet  will  there  sometimes  come  -a  ghostly  dread, 

From  which  the  soul  recoils  ;  but  he  will  sleep — 
Av,  sleep — and  when  he  wakes,  all,  all  is  fled. 

Thus  we  may  "  garner  up"  our  hearts,  and  keep 
A  more  than  human  trust,  and  yet  be  left 
Despoiled  of  all — of  hope,  of  faith,  of  love  bereft ! 


ECCK  HOMO. 

THE  WORSHIP  AND  THE  WAY. 

WHETIE  the  great  woods  their  dusky  shadows  spread, 
Where  the  co'.d  mountain-top  in  silence  stood — 

What  time  the  stars  hung  dark. ing  overhead, 
Or  came  the  red  sun  forth  a  beaming  god, 

There,  dimly  groping,  yet  for  truth  athirst, 

Before  the  heavenly  hosts  in  worship  first, 

Ecce  Homo ! 

The  sylvan  god  hid  in  the  rude,  worn  stone, 

The  fire  with  wreaths  of  smoke  to  heaven  ascending 
From  out  the  consecrated  dell,  are  gone ; 

The  Parsee  on  the  mount  no  more  is  bending, 
But  in  a  shapely  temple,  with  the  rites 
Of  priest,  and  victim,  and  the  burning  lights, 

Ecce  Homo ! 
Ah,  struggling  soul !  crushed  and  impeded,  yet 

In  form  alone  thou  couldst  riot  rest  content ; 
These  were  but  symbols :  thou  couldst  not  forget 

Truth  dwells  within  the  veil,  which  must  be  rent ; 
And  once  again,  mid  earthquakes,  doubt,  and  dread, 
And  darkness  o'er  the  earth,  and  o'er  all  worship 

spread —  Ecce  Homo  ! 

Where  hath  the  lowly  been,  to  point  the  path 

To  all  the  strugglers  for  the  good  and  true  1 
In  peril  and  in  scorn  from  earthborn  wrath, 

His  locks  all  covered  with  tae  midnight  dew — • 
The  sweat  of  b.ood,  the  agony,  the  prayer — 
Oh,  dark  Gethsemane,  behold  him  there  ! 

Ecce  Homo ! 
Wayworn  with  toil,  and  sorrowful  of  heart, 

Amid  earth's  multitude  despised  and  poor, 
WTho,  save  their  trust  in  God,  have  little  art — 

Their  strength  the  strength  that  teaches  to  endure : 
To  comfort  such,  and  in  the  outcast's  ear 
Great  words  to  whisper  of  consoling  cheer — 

Ecce  Homo ! 
WThere  is  the  Priest,  and  where  the  altar  now  * 

Where  is  the  reeking  blood.,  and  victim  slain  1 
Tranquil  is  upward  raised  a  heavenly  brow — 

"  Do  this  in  love  until  I  come  again" — 

And  mystic  wine  poured  forth,  and  lowly  bread, 
Earth's  best  and  common  gifts  before  him  spread, 

Ecce  Homo ! 

Not  as  the  martyr  dies — with  the  great  stamp 

Of  Truth  upon  his  brow,  him  to  uphold ; 

But  o'er  the  suffering  forehead,  cold  and  lamp, 


Th  A  record  of  imposture  three  times  told — 
The  outcast  and  the  felon  side  by  side — 
"  Without  the  walls,"  where  all  men  may  deride— 

Ecce  Homo ! 
Thou  fainting  bearer  of  the  thorn  and  cross, 

Despised,  rejected  of  thy  brother  here — 
Sighing  for  lack  of  bread — the  wayside  moss 

Thine  only  pillow — cast  aside  thy  fear ! 
Fill  up  thy  human  heart  unto  the  brim — 
Let  the  thorn  pierce  thee,  as  it  pierced  Him — 

Ecce  Homo! 


ODE   TO   SAPPHO. 

BRIGHT,  glowing  Sappho  !  child  of  love  and  song  ! 

Adown  the  blueness  of  long-distant  years 
Beams  forth  thy  glorious  shape,  and  steal  along 
Thy  melting  tones,  beguiling  us  to  tears. 
Thou  priestess  of  great  hearts, 

Thrilled  with  the  secret  fire 
By  which  a  god  imparts 

The  anguish  of  desire — 
For  meaner  souls  be  mean  content — 
Thine  was  a  higher  element. 
Over  Leucadia's  rock  thou  leanest  yet, 

With  thy  wild  song,  and  all  thy  locks  outspread  ; 
The  stars  are  in  thine  eyes,  the  moon  hath  set — 
The  night  dew  falls  upon  thy  radiant  head ; 
And  thy  resounding  lyre — 
Ah  !  not  so  wildly  sway  : 
Thy  soulful  lips  inspire 

And  steal  our  hearts  away  ! 
Swanlike  and  beautiful,  thy  dirge 
Still  moans  along  the  ^Egean  surge. 
No  unrequited  love  filled  thy  lone  heart, 
But  thine  infinitude  did  on  thee  weigh, 
And  all  the  wildness  of  despair  impart, 
Stealing  the  down  from  Hope's  own  wing  away. 
Couldst  thou  not  suffer  on, 
Bearing  the  direful  pang, 
While  thy  melodious  tone 

Through  wondering  cities  rang? 
Couldst  thou  not  bear  thy  godlike  grief] 
In  godlike  utterance  find  relief! 
Devotion,  fervor,  might  upon  thee  wait  : 

But  what  were  these  to  thine  1  all  cold  and  chill, 
And  left  thy  burning  heart  but  desolate ; 
Thy  wondrou?  beauty  with  despair  might  fill 
The  worshipper  who  bent 

Entranced  at  thy  feet : 
Too  affluent  the  dower  lent 

Where  song  and  beauty  meet ! 
Consumed  by  a  Promethean  fire 
Wert  thou,  O  daughter  .of  the  lyre ! 
Alone,  above  Leucadia's  wave  art  thou, 
Most  beautiful,  most  gifted,  yet  alone ! 
Ah  !  what  to  thee  the  crown  from  Pindar's  brow  e 
What  the  loud  plaudit  and  the  garlands  tluown 
By  the  enraptured  throng, 

When  thou  in  matchless  grace 
Didst  move  with  lyre  and  song, 

And  monarchs  gave  thee  place  1 
What  hast  thou  left,  proud  one  ?  what  token  ? 
Alas  !  a  lyre  and  heart — uotli  broken  ! 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMTTH. 


LOVE  DEAD. 

Th*  lady  sent  liim  an  ima.se  of  Cupid,  one  wins  veiling  Ins  face.  He 
was  pit-use,!  tli>-rt-at,  thinkin- it  to  be  Low  >|.-.-piii^,  and  betokened 
'lie  tenderm»M  ot'  (lie  sentiment.  He  looked  again,  and  caw  it 
Love  dead,  and  laid  upon  his  biet. 

THIS  morn  with  trembling  I  awoke, 
Just  as  the  dawn  my  slumber  broke  : 
Flapping  came  a  heavy  wing  sounding  pinions  o'er 

my  head, 

Beating  down  the  b'.essed  air  with  a  weight  of  chil 
ling  dread  ; 

Felt  I  then  the  presence  of  a  doom 
That  an  Evil  occupied  the  room : 
And  I  dared  not  round  the  bower, 

Chi.ly  in  the  grayish  dawning — 
Dared  not  face  the  evil  power, 

With  its  voice  of  inward  warning. 
Vain  with  weakness  we  may  palter — 
Vainly  may  the  fond  heart  falter: 
Came  there  then  upon  my  soul,  dropping  down 

like  leaden  weight, 
Burning  pang  or  freezing  pang,  which  I  know  not, 

'twas  so  great ! 

Life  hath  its  moments  black  unnumbered, 
I  knew  not  if  mine  eyes  had  slumbered, 
Yet  I  little  thought  such  pain 
Ever  to  have  known  again  : 
Love  dies,  too,  when  Faith  is  dead — 
Yesternight  Faith  perished  ! 
I  knew  that  Love  could  never  change  - 
That  Love  should  die  seems  yet  more  strange  ; 
Lifting  up  the  downy  veil,  screening  Love  within 

my  heart, 

Beating  there  as  beat  my  pulse,  moving  like  my 
self  a  part — 

I  had  kept  him  cherished  there  so  deep, 
Heart-rocked  kept  him  in  his  balmy  sleep, 
That  till  now  I  never  knew 
How  his  fibres  round  me  grew — 
Could  not  know  how  deep  the  sorrow 
Where  Hope  bringeth  no  to-morrow. 
I  struggled,  knowing  we  must  part ; 
I  grieved  to  lift  him  from  my  heart: 
Grieving  much  and  struggling  much,  forth  I  brought 

him  sorrowing ; 
Drooping  hung  his  fainting  head,  all  adown  his 

dainty  wing ! 

Shrieked  I  with  a  wild  and  dark  surprise, 
For  I  saw  the  marble  in  Love's  eyes ; 
Yet  I  hoped  his  soul  would  wait 
^s  he  oft  had  waited  there, 
Hovering,  though  at  heaven's  gate — 
Could  he  leave  me  to  despair  ] 
Unfolded  they  the  crystal  door, 
W'here  Love  shall  languish  never  more. 
"VV  eeping  Love,  thy  days  are  o'er.     Lo  !  I  lay  thee 

on  thy  bier, 
Wiping  thus  from  thy  dead  cheek  every  vestige  of 

a  tear. 

Love  has  perished :  hist,  hist,  how  they  tell, 
Beating  pulse  of  mine,  his  funeral  knell ! 
Lo\e  is  dead — ay,  dead  and  gone! 
Why  should  I  be  living  on  ? — 
Why  be  in  this  chamber  sitting, 
With  but  phantoms  round  me  flitting? 


STANZAS. 

I  PASS  before  them  cold  and  lone; 
I  ask  no  smile,  I  claim  no  tear; 
And  like  some  chiselled  form  of  stone, 

Doomed  none  save  mocking  words  to  hear, 
To  meet  no  eyes  with  Love's  own  ray, 

No  touch  that  might  the  life-pulse  wake, 
No  tone  emotion  to  betray, 

No  self  forgotten  for  its  sake  ! 
So  pass  they  all,  and  it  is  well ! 

I  would  not  such  should  read  the  mind 
Where  hidden  tenderness  may  dwell, 

Like  gem  in  icy  cave  confined ; 
I  would  not  every  eye  should  read 

What  one  alone  should  ever  know — 
One,  only  one,  by  Fate  decreed 

To  bid  these  icy  fetters  flow  ! 
They  deem  that  changeful,  struggling  still, 

For  that  nor  time  nor  earth  can  give ; 
Misled  by  Fancy's  aimless  will, 

I  in  the  cold  ideal  live. 
Oh,  it  is  well !  —  thence  holier  far 

Is  all  I  cherish  thus  apart — 
Pure  as  the  brightness  of  a  star, 

Deep  as  the  fountains  of  the  heart ! 


ENDURANCE. 

1  She  turned  to  him  sorrowfully,  saying,  '  Thou  art  free!'     Tl.en  P<at 
did  ho  feel  how  deep  is  the  bondage  of  love." 

I  HAVE  loosed  every  bond  from  thy  uneasy  heart, 

Have  given  thee  back  every  pledge  that  was  dear ; 
I  have  bidden  thee  go,  yet  thou  wilt  not  depart — 

I  have  prompted  away,  yet  still  thou  art  here. 
I  knew  that  thy  freedom  would  be  but  in  vain, 

Thy  bondage  the  same,  though  absent  the  token  : 
The  chain  may  be  reft,  yet  the  scar  will  remain ; 

The  weight  will  be  felt,  though  the  links  are  all 
broken. 

[  shed  not  a  tear  when  I  bade  thee  depart — 

My  lip  curled  with  pride,  but  nothing  with  scorn  ; 
[f  the  pang  or  the  aching  were  felt  at  the  heart, 

Thou  couldst  not  divine  that  it  nourished  the 

thorn. 
[  dreamed  not  of  comfort,  I  prayed  not  for  bliss ; 

In  loving  I  knew  was  the  wreck  of  my  life : 
[n  silence  I  bowed  and  asked  but  for  this — 

Thou  ever  the  same  in  my  darkness  and  strife ! 
The  prayer  hath  been  mocked,  it  is  well  that  we  part ; 

Yet  it  grieves  me  a  will  so  unfettered  as  thine 
Should  wrestle  in  vain  with  the  bonds  of  the  heart, 

A  captive  unwilling  in  jesses  of  mine. 

would  send  thee  away  with  fetterless  wing, 

W  ith  eye  that  nor  dimness  nor  sorrow  hath  known; 

The  free  airs  of  heaven  around  thee  should  sing, 
And  I  bear  the  shaft  and  the  anguish  alone, 
have  learned  to  endure,  I  have  hugged  my  despair, 
I  scourge  back  the  madness  that  else  would  invade ; 

On  my  brain  falls  the  drop  after  drop,  yet  I  bear, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  discover  the  wreck  thou  hast 
made ! 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


191 


MINISTERING  SPIRITS. 

WHITE-WIXGED  angels  meet  the  child 

On  the  vestibule  of  life, 
And  they  offer  to  his  lips 

All  that  cup  of  mingled  strife — 
Mingled  drops  of  smiles  and  tears, 
Human  hopes,  and  human  fears, 
Joy  and  sorrow,  love  and  wo, 
Which  the  future  heart  must  know. 

Sad  the  smile  the  spirits  wear, 
Sad  the  fanning  of  their  wings, 

As  in  their  exceeding  love 

Each  a  cup  of  promise  hrings : 

In  the  coming  strife  and  care, 

They  have  promised  to  be  there ; 

Bowed  by  weariness  or  grief, 

They  will  minister  relief. 

Lady,  could  the  infant  look 

In  that  deep  and  bitter  cup, 
All  its  hidden  perils  know, 

Would  it  quaff  life's  waters  up  ? 
Lady,  yes — for  in  the  vase 
Upward  beams  an  angel  face ; 
Deep  and  anguished  though  the  sigh, 
There  is  comfort  lurking  nigh — 
Times  of  joy,  and  times  of  wo, 
Each  an  angel-presence  know. 


THE  RECALL,  OR  SOUL  MELODY. 

NOTI  dulcimer  nor  harp  shall  hreathe 

Their  melody  for  me  ; 
Within  my  secret  soul  be  wrought 

A  holier  minstrelsy  ! 
Descend  into  thy  depths,  oh  soul ! 
And  every  sense  in  me  control. 

Thou  hast  no  voice  for  outward  mirth, 

Whose  purer  strains  arise 
From  those  that  steal  from  crystal  gates, 

The  hymnings  of  the  skies ; 
And  well  may  earth's  cold  jarrings  cease, 
When  such  have  soothed  thee  unto  peace. 

Within  thy  secret  chamher  rest, 

And  back  each  sense  recall, 
That  seeketh  mid  the  tranquil  stars      • 

Where  melody  shall  fall ; 
Call  home  the  wanderer  from  the  vale, 
From  mountain  and  the  moonlight  pale. 

Within  the  leafy  wood,  the  sound 

Of  dropping  rain  may  ring, 
Which,  rolling  from  the  trembling  leaf, 

Falls  on  the  sparrow's  wing ; 
And  music  round  the  waking  flower 
May  breathe  in  every  star-lit  bower : 

Yet,  come  away  !  nor  stay  to  hear 

The  breathings  of  a  voice 
Whose  subtle  tones  awake  a  thrill 

To  make  thee  to  rejoice, 
And  vibrate  on  the  listening  ear 
Too  deep,  too  earnest — ah,  too  dear. 
Yes,  come  away,  and  inward  turn 

Each  thought  and  every  sense, 


For  srrrow  lingers  from  without — 
Th(  u  canst  not  charm  it  thence ; 
But  a'l  attuned  the  soul  may  be, 
Unto  a  deathless  melody. 


THE  WATER. 

How  beautiful  the  water  is  ! 

Didst  ever  think  of  it, 
When  down  it  tumbles  from  the  skies, 

As  in  a  merry  fit  ? 
It  jostles,  ringing  as  it  falls, 

On  all  that's  in  its  way — 
I  hear  it  dancing  on  the  roof, 

Like  some  wild  thing  at  play. 

'Tis  rushing  now  adown  the  spout, 

And  gushing  out  below, 
Half  frantic  in  its  joyousness, 

And  wild  in  eager  flow. 
The  earth  is  dried  and  parched  with  heat, 

And  it  hath  longed  to  be 
Released  from  out  the  selfish  cloud, 

To  cool  the  thirsty  tree. 

It  washes,  rather  rudely  too, 

The  flow'rets  simple  grace, 
As  if  to  chide  the  pretty  thing 

For  dust  upon  its  face  : 
It  showers  the  tree  till  every  leaf 

Is  free  from  dust  or  stain, 
Then  waits  till  leaf  and  branch  are  stilleil. 

And  showers  them  o'er  again. 

Drop  after  drop  is  tinkling  down, 

To  kiss  the  stirring  brook, 
The  water  dimples  from  beneath 

With  its  own  joyous  look : 
And  then  the  kindred  drops  embrace, 

And  singing  on  they  go, 
To  dance  beneath  the  willow  tree, 

And  glad  the  vale  below. 

How  beautiful  the  water  is  ! 

It  loves  to  come  at  night, 
To  make  us  wonder  in  the  morn 

To  find  the  earth  so  bright — 
To  see  a  youthful  gloss  is  spread 

On  every  shrub  and  tree, 
And  flowerets  breathing  on  the  ail 

Their  odors  pure  and  free. 

A  dainty  thing  the  water  is — 

It  loves  the  blossom's  cup, 
To  nestle  mid  the  odors  there, 

And  fill  the  petals  up ; 
It  hangs  its  gems  on  every  leaf, 

Like  diamonds  in  the  sun ; 
And  then  the  water  wins  the  smile 

The  floweret  should  have  won. 

How  beautiful  the  water  is  ! 

To  me  'tis  wondrous  fair — 
No  spot  can  ever  lonely  be, 

If  water  sparkle  there ; 
It  hath  a  thousand  tongues  of  mirtb. 

Of  grandeur,  or  delight, 
And  every  heart  is  gladder  made 

When  water  greets  the  sight 


l'J2 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


THE   BROOK. 

"  WHITHKTI  awav,  thou  merry  Brook, 

Whither  away  so  fast, 
With  dainty  feet  through  the  meadow  green, 

And  a  srni!e  as  you  hurry  past?" 
The  Brook  leaped  on  in  idle  mirth, 

And  dimpled  with  saucy  glee; 
The  daisy  kissed  in  lovingness, 

And  made  with  the  wil.ow  free. 

I  heard  its  lau^h  adown  the  glen, 

And  over  the  rocky  steep, 
Away  where  the  old  tree's  roots  were  bare 

In  the  waters  dark  and  deep ; 
The  sunshine  flashed  upon  its  face, 

And  played  with  flickering  leaf — 
Well  pleased  to  dally  in  its  path, 

Though  the  tarrying  were  brief. 

"  Now  stay  thy  feet,  oh  restless  one, 

Where  droops  the  spreading  tree, 
And  let  thy  liquid  voice  reveal 

Thy  story  unto  me." 
The  flashing  pebbles  lightly  rung, 

As  the  gushing  music  fell, 
The  chiming  music  of  the  brook, 

From  out  the  woody  dell. 

"  My  mountain  home  was  bleak  and  high, 

A  rugged  spot  s.nd  drear, 
With  searching  wind  and  raging  storm, 

And  moonlight  cold  and  clear. 
I  longed  for  a  greeting  cheery  as  mine, 

For  a  fond  and  answering  look 
But  none  were  in  that  solitude 

To  bless  the  little  brook. 

"  The  blended  hum  of  pleasant  sounds 

Came  up  from  the  vale  below, 
And  I  wished  that  mine  were  a  lowly  lot, 

To  lapse,  and  sing  as  I  go ; 
That  gentle  things,  with  loving  eyes, 

Along  my  path  should  glide, 
And  blossoms  in  their  loveliness 

Come  nestling  to  my  side. 

"  I  leaped  me  down  :  my  rainbow  robe 

Hung  shivering  to  the  sight, 
And  the  thrill  of  freedom  gave  to  me 

New  impulse  of  delight. 
A  joyous  welcome  the  sunshine  gave, 

The  bird  and  the  swaying  tree ; 
The  spear-like  grass  and  blossom  start 

With  joy  at  sight  of  me. 

"  The  swallow  comes  with  its  bit  of  clay, 

When  the  busy  Spring  is  here, 
And  twittering  hears  the  moistened  gift 

A  nest  on  the  eaves  to  rear; 
The  twinkling  feet  of  flock  and  herd 

Have  trodden  a  path  to  me, 
And  the  fox  and  the  squirrel  come  to  drink 

In  the  shade  of  the  alder-tree. 

"  The  surinurnt  child,  with  its  rounded  foo 

Comes  hither  with  me  to  play, 
And  I  feel  the  thrill  of  his  lightsome  heart 

As  he  dashes  the  merry  spray. 


I  turn  the  mill  with  answering  glee, 
As  the  merry  spokes  go  round, 

And  the  gray  rock  takes  the  echo  up, 
Rejoicing  in  the  sound. 

"  The  old  man  bathes  his  scattered  locks, 

And  drops  me  a  silent  tear — 
For  he  sees  a  wrinkled,  careworn  face 

Look  up  from  the  waters  clear. 
Then  I  sing  in  his  ear  the  very  song 

He  heard  in  years  gone  by ; 
The  old  man's  heart  is  glad  again, 

And  a  joy  lights  up  his  eye." 

Enough,  enough,  thou  homily  brook ! 

I'll  treasure  thy  teachings  well, 
And  I  will  yield  a  heartfelt  tear 

Thy  crystal  drops  to  swell ; 
Will  bear  like  thee  a  kindly  love 

For  the  lowly  things  of  earth, 
Remembering  still  that  high  and  pure 

Is  the  home  of  the  spirit's  birth. 


THE  COUNTRY  MAIDEN. 

I  had  rather  have  one  kisse, 
Cliilde  waters  of  thy  mouth, 

Than  1  woulde  have  Cheshire  and  Lancashire  both* 
That  lye  by  north  and  south.— Old  Ballad. 

I  CAME  to  thee  in  workday  dress 

And  hair  but  plainly  kempt, 
For  life  is  not  all  holyday, 

From  toil  and  care  exempt ; 

I  met  thee  oft  with  glowing  cheek — 

Thus  love  its  tale  will  tell ; 
Though  oft  its  after  paleness  told 

Of  hidden  grief  as  well. 

Mine  eyes  that  drooped  beneath  thy  glance 

To  hide  their  sense  of  bliss, 
Let  fall  too  oft  the  tears  that  tell 

Of  secret  tenderness. 

I  sought  for  no  bewildering  lure 

Thy  senses  to  beguile, 
But  checked  the  woman-playfulness, 

The  witching  tone  and  smile. 

With  household  look  and  household  word. 

And  frank  as  maidens  meet, 
I  dared  with  earnest,  homely  truth, 

Thy  manliness  to  greet. 

For  oh !  so  much  of  truth  was  mine, 

So  much  of  love  beside, 
I  wished  in  simple  maidenhood 

To  be  thy  chosen  bride. 

Alas  !  the  russet  robe  no  more 

Of  humble  life  may  tell, 
And  thou  dost  say  the  velvet  gear 

Becomes  my  beauty  well. 

'Twas  thy  dear  hand  upon  my  brow 
That  bound  each  sparkling  gem, 

But  dearer  far  its  slightest  touch 
Than  all  the  wealth  of  them. 

Oh  !  tell  me  not  of  gorgeous  robes, 
Nor  bind  the  jewel  there ; 


ELIZABETH    CAKES-SMITH. 


193 


And  teil  me  not  with  those  cold  eyes 

That  1  am  wondrous  fair. 
I  will  not  chide,  I  will  not  blame, 

And  vet  the  thought  is  here, 
The  thought  so  fraught  with  bitterness — 

It  yieldeth  rne  no  tear. 
I  gave  thee  tenderness  too  deep — 

Too  deep  for  aught  but  tears ; 
And  thou  wouldst  teach  the  world's  cold  rule, 

Which  learned,  the  heart  but  seres. 

I  gave  Ihee  all  the  soul's  deep  trust — 

Its  truth  by  sorrow  tried  ; 
Nay,  start  not  thou  !  what  hast  thou  given  1 

Alas  !   'tis  but  thy  pride. 
Give  back,  give  back  the  tenderness 

That  blessed  my  simple  love, 
And  call  me,  as  in  those  dear  days, 

Thine  own,  thy  gentle  dove  ! 


THE  APRIL  RAIN. 

THE  April  rain — the  April  rain — 

I  hear  the  pleasant  sound ; 
Now  soft  and  still,  like  little  dew, 

Now  drenching  all  the  ground. 
Pray  tell  me  why  an  April  shower 

Is  pleasanter  to  see 
Than  falling  drops  of  other  rain? 

I'm  sure  it  is  to  me. 

I  wonder  if  'tis  really  so — 

Or  only  hope  the  while, 
That  tells  of  swelling  buds  and  flowers, 

And  Summer's  coming  smile. 
Whate'er  it  is,  the  April  shower 

Makes  me  a  child  again ; 
I  feel  a  rush  of  youthful  blood 

Come  with  the  April  rain. 

And  sure,  were  I  a  little  bulb 

Within  the  darksome  ground, 
I  should  love  to  hear  the  April  rain 

So  gently  falling  round  ; 
Or  any  tiny  flower  were  I, 

By  Nature  swaddled  up, 
How  pleasantly  the  April  shower 

Would  bathe  my  hidden  cup ! 

The  small  brown  seed,  that  rattled  down 

On  the  cold  autumnal  earth, 
Is  bursting  from  its  cerements  forth, 

Rejoicing  in  its  birth. 
The  slender  spears  of  pale  green  grass 

Are  smiling  in  the  light, 
The  clover  opes  its  folded  leaves 

As  if  it  felt  delight. 

The  robin  sings  on  the  leafless  tree, 

Ana  upward  turns  his  eye, 
As  loving  much  to  see  the  drops 

Come  filtering  from  the  sky  ; 
No  doubt  he  longs  the  bright  green  leaves 

About  his  home  to  see, 
And  feel  the  swaying  summer  winds 

Play  in  the  full-robed  tree. 
13 


The  cottage  door  is  open  wide, 

And  cheerful  sounds  are  heard  , 
The  younjr  girl  sings  at  the  merry  wheel 

A  song  like  the  wilding  bird; 
The  creeping  child  by  the  old,  worn  sill 

Peers  out  with  winking  eye, 
And  his  ringlets  rubs  with  chubby  hand, 

As  the  drops  come  pattering  by. 

With  bounding  heart  beneath  the  »ky, 

The  truant  boy  is  out, 
And  hoop  and  ball  are  da-rting  by 

With  many  a  merry  shout. 
Ay,  sport  away,  ye  joyous  throng — 

For  yours  is  the  April  day ; 
I  love  to  see  your  spirits  dance  V 

In  your  pure  and  healthful  pla}r. 

ATHEISM. 

FAITH. 

BE  WARE  of  doubt — faith  is  the  subtle  chain 

Which  binds  us  to  the  Infinite :  the  voice 
Of  a  deep  life  within,  that  will  remain 

Until  we  crowd  it  thence.     We  may  rejoice 
With  an  exceeding  joy,  and  make  our  life, 

Ay,  this  external  life,  become  a  part 
Of  that  which  is  within,  o'erwrought  and  rife 

With  faith,  that  childlike  blessedness  of  heart. 
The  order  and  the  harmony  inborn 

With  a  perpetual  hymning  crown  our  way, 
Till  callousness,  and  selfishness,  and  scorn,  [play. 

Shall  pass  as  clouds  where  scatheless  lightning!/ 
Cling  to  thy  faith — 'tis  higher  than  the  thought 
That  questions  of  thy  faith,  the  cold  external  doubt. 

REASON. 

THE  Infinite  speaks  in  our  silent  hearts, 

And  draws  our  being  to  himself,  as  deep 
Calleth  unto  deep.     He,  who  all  thought  imparts, 

Demands  the  pledge.,  the  bond  of  soul  to  keep ; 
But  reason,  wandering  from  its  fount  afar, 

And  stooping  downward,  breaks  the  subtle  chain 
That  binds  it  to  itself,  like  star  to  star, 

And  sun  to  sun,  upward  to  God  again : 
Doubt,  once  confirmed,  tolls  the  dead  spirit's  knell, 

And  man  is  but  a  clod  of  earth,  to  die 
Like  the  poor  beast  that  in  his  shambles  fell — 

More  miserable  doom  than  that,  to  lie 
In  trembling  torture,  like  believing  ghosts,  [Hosts*. 
Who,  though  divorced  from  good,  bow  to  the  Lord  of 

AXXIHI1ATIOX. 

DOUBT,  cypress  crowned,  upon  a  ruined  arch 

Amid  the  shapely  temple  overthrown, 
Exultant,  stays  at  length  her  onward  march: 

Her  victim,  all  with  earthliness  o'ergrown, 
Hath  sunk  himself  to  earth  to  perish  there; 

His  thoughts  are  outward,  all  his  love  a  blight. 
Dying,  deluding,  are  his  hopes,  though  t'uir — 

And  death,  the  spirit's  everlasting  night. 
Thus,  midnight  travellers,  on  some  mountain  steep. 

Hear  far  above  the  avalanche  boom  down, 
Starting  the  glacier  echoes  from  their  sleep, 

And  lost  in  glens  to  human  foot  unknown — 
The  death-plunge  of.  the  lost  come  to  their  ear, 
And  silence  claims  again  her  region  cold  and  dreai. 


194 


ELIZABETH    OAKES-SMITH. 


LET  ME  BE  A  FANTASY. 

LIKE  the  faint  breathing  of  a  distant  lute 

Heard  in  the  hush  of  evening  still  and  low, 
For  which  we  lingering  listen,  though  ?tis  mute, 

I  would  be  unto  thee,  and  nothing  moe — 
Oh,  nothing  moe 
Or  like  the  wind-harp  trembling  to  its  pain 

With  music-joy,  which  must  perforce  touch  wo 
Ere  it  shall  sing  itself  to  sleep  again, 

80  I  would  pass  to  thee,  and  be  no  moe — 

A  breath,  no  moe  ! 
Like  lustre  of  a  stone,  that  wakens  thought 

Pure  as  the  cold,  far-gleaming  mountain  snow  — 
Like  water  to  its  crystal  beauty  wrought — 

Like  all  sweet  Fancy  dreams,  but  nothing  moe — 

A  dream,  no  moe ! 
Like  gleams  of  better  worlds  and  better  truth, 

Which  our  lone  hours  of  aspiration  know, 
I  would  renew  to  thee  the  dew  of  youth — 

Touch  thy  good-angel  wing— oh,  nothing  moe — 
Oh,  nothing  moe ! 


STRENGTH  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

COME  up  unto  the  hills — thy  strength  is  there. 

Oh,  thou  hast  tarried  long, 
Too  long,  amid  the  bowers  and  blossoms  fair, 

With  notes  of  summer  song. 
Why  dost  thou  tarry  there  1   what  though  the  bird 

Pipes  matin  in  the  vale — 
The  plough-boy  whistles  to  the  loitering  herd, 

As  the  red  daylights  fail — 

Yet  come  unto  the  hills,  the  old  strong  hills, 

And  leave  the  stagnant  plain  ; 
Come  to  the  gushing  of  the  newborn  rills, 

As  sing  they  to  the  main ; 
And  thou  with  denizens  of  power  shalt  dwell, 

Beyond  demeaning  care ; 
Composed  upon  his  rock,  mid  storm  and  fell, 

The  eagle  shall  be  there. 

Come  up  unto  the  hills :  the  shattered  tree 

Still  clings  unto  the  rock, 
And  flingeth  out  his  branches  wild  and  free, 

To  dare  again  the  shock. 
Come  where  no  fear  is  known :  the  seabird's  nest 

On  the  old  hemlock  swings, 
And  thou  shalt  taste  the  gladness  of  unrest, 

And  mount  upon  thy  wings. 

t  Jome  up  unto  the  hills.     The  men  of  old, 

They  of  undaunted  wills, 
Grew  jubilant  of  heart,  and  strong,  and  bold, 

On  the  enduring  hills — 
Where  came  the  soundings  of  the  sea  afar, 

Borne  upward  to  the  ear, 
And  nearer  grew  the  moon  and  midnight  star, 

And  God  himself  more  near. 


EROS  AND  ANTEROS. 

'T  is  said  sweet  Psyche  gazed  one  night 

On  Cupid's  sleeping  face — 
Gazed  in  her  fondness  on  the  wight 

In  his  unstudied  grace  : 
But  he,  bewildered  by  the  glare 

Of  light  at  such  a  time, 
Fled  from  the  side  of  Psyche  there 

As  from  a  thing  of  crime. 

Ay,  weak  the  fable — false  the  ground — 

Sweet  Psyche  veiled  her  face — 
Well  knowing  Love,  if  ever  found, 

Will  never  leave  his  place. 
Un found  as  yet,  and  weary  grown, 

She  had  mistook  another : 
'T  was  but  Love's  semblance  she  had  founi 

Not  Eros,  but  his  brother  ! 


THE  POET. 

NON  VOX  SED  VOTUM. 

It  is  the  belief  of  the  vulgar  that  when  the  nightingale  sings,  she  U 
her  breast  upon  a  thorn. 


,  sing  —  Poet,  sing  ! 
With  the  thorn  beneath  thy  breast, 
Robbing  thee  of  all  thy  rest  ; 
Hidden  thorn  for  ever  thine, 
Therefore  dost  thou  sit  and  twine 

Lays  of  sorrowing  — 
Lays  that  wake  a  mighty  gladness, 
Spite  of  all  their  mournful  sadness. 

Sing,  sing  —  Poet  sing  ! 
It  doth  ease  thee  of  thy  sorrow  — 
"  Darkling"  singing  till  the  morrow  ; 
Never  weary  of  thy  trust, 
Hoping,  loving  as  thou  must, 

Let  thy  music  ring; 
Noble  cheer  it  doth  impart, 
Strength  of  will  and  strength  of  heart. 

Sing,  sing  —  Poet,  sing  ! 
Thou  art  made  a  human  voice  ; 
Wherefore  shouldst  thou  not  rejoice 
That  the  tears  of  thy  mute  brother 
Bearing  pangs  he  may  not  smother, 

Through  thee  are  flowing— 
For  his  dim,  unuttered  grief 
Through  thy  song  hath  found  relief  'I 

Sing,  sing  —  Poet,  sing  ! 
Join  the  music  of  the  stars, 
Wheeling  on  their  sounding  cars  ; 
Each  responsive  in  its  place 
To  the  choral  hymn  of  space  — 

Lift,  oh  lift  thy  wing  — 
And  the  thorn  beneath  thv  breast, 
Though  it  pierce,  shall  give  thee  rest 


E.    C.   KIN  NET. 


THIS  fine  poet  is  the  daughter  of  an  old 
and  respected  merchant,  Mr.  J)avid  L.  Dodge, 
who  retired  from  business  many  years  ago. 
She  was  born,  and  chiefly  educated,  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  where  most  of  her  life 
has  been  passed,  in  the  pursuit  of  favorite 
s'udies,  and  the  intercourse  of  a  large  circle 
of  friends.  A  few  years  ago  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Mr.  William  B.  Kinney,  of  the  New 
ark  Daily  Advertiser,  one  of  the  most  able, 
accomplished,  and  honorable  of  the  men  who 
preserve  to  journalism  its  proper  rank,  in  a 
republic,  of  the  first  of  professions.  With  a 
modesty  equal  to  her  genius,  and  an  adequate 
sense  of  their  function,  she  never  deemed  her 
self  of  the  company  of  poets.  Possessing  in 
a  remarkable  degree  the  "fatal facility,"  she 
has  written  verse  from  childhood,  but  never 
with  any  of  the  usual  incentives,  except  the 
desire  of  utterance,  and  the  gratification  of 
friends.  The  Spirit  of  Song,  one  of  her  latest 
pieces,  is  but  a  simple  expression  of  her 
habitual  feelings  on  the  subject.  The  idea 


of  publication  always  brought  a  seme  of  con 
straint,  and  her  early  improvisations,  pro 
duced  under  this  embarrassment,  for  the 
Knickerbocker,  Graham's  Magazine,  and 
other  periodicals,  at  "  Cedar  Brook,"  her  fa 
ther's  country  residence,  in  the  vicinity  of 
Newai  k,  appeared  under  the  name  of  Sted- 
man.  One  of  her  friends,  whose  opportuni 
ties  to  know  are  as  great  as  his  acknowledged 
sagacity  of  criticism  to  judge,  observes,  in  a 
letter  to  me,  that  "decidedly  the  most  free, 
salient,  and  characteristic  effusions  of  her 
buoyant  spirit,  have  been  thrown  off,  cur- 
rente  calamo,  in  correspondence  and  inter 
course  with  her  friends." 

It  will  gratify  the  reader,  who  can  appre 
ciate  the  delicacy  and  strength  and  melodi 
ous  cadences,  of  the  illustrations  of  her  abil 
ities  that  are  here  quoted,  to  learn  that  Mrs. 
Kinney  is  turning  her  attention  more  and 
more  to  composition,  and  that  she  is  medi 
tating  an  elaborate  poem,  which  will  serve 
as  the  just  measure  of  her  powers. 


TO  THE   EAGLE.  i 

IMPERIAL  bird!  that  soarest  to  the  sky,  [way —  j 
Cleaving  through  clouds  and  storms  thine  upward 

Or,  fixing  steadfastly  that  dauntless  eye, 
Dost  face  the  great,  effulgent  god  of  day  ! 

Proud  monarch  of  the  feathery  tribes  of  air ! 
My  soul  exulting  marks  thy  bold  career, 

Up,  through  the  azure  fields,  to  regions  fair, 
Where  bathed  in  light  thy  pinions  disappear. 

Thou  with  the  gods  upon  Olympus  dwelt, 
The  emblem  and  the  favorite  bird  of  Jove — 

And  godlike  power  in  thy  broad  wings  hast  felt 
Since  first  they  spread  o'er  land  and  sea  to  rove: 

From  Ida's  top  the  Thunderer's  piercing  sight 
Flashed  on  the  hosts  which  Ilium  did  defy ; 

So  from  thy  eyry  on  the  beetling  height 
Shoot  down  the  lightning-glances  of  thine  eye ! 

From  his  Olympian  throne  Jove  stooped  to  earth 
For  ends  inglorious  in  the  god  of  gods! 

Leaving  the  beauty  of  celestial  birth, 
To  rob  Humanity's  less  fair  abodes : 

Oh,  passion  more  rapacious  than  divine, 
That  stole  the  peace  of  innocence  away  ! 

So,  when  descend  those  tireless  wings  of  thine, 
They  stoop  to  make  defencelessness  their  prey. 


Lo !  where  thou  comest  from  the  realms  afar ! 
Thy  strong  wings  whir  like  some  huge  bellows' 
breath  ; 

Swift  falls  thy  fiery  eyeball,  like  a  star, 
And  dark  thy  shadow  as  the  pall  of  death ! 

But  thou  hast  marked  a  tall  and  reverend  tree, 
And  now  thy  talons  clinch  yon  leafless  limb; 

Before  thee  stretch  the  sandv  shore  and  sea, 
And  sails,  like  ghosts,  move  in  the  distance  dim. 

Fair  is  the  scene !     Yet  thy  voracious  eye 

Drinks  not  its  beauty ;  but  with  bloody  glare 
Watches  the  wild  fowl  idly  floating  by, 

Or  snow-white  sea-gull  winnowing  the  air : 
Oh,  pitiless  is  thine  unerring  beak ! 

Quick  as  the  wings  of  Thought  thy  pinions  fall- 
Then  bear  their  victim  to  the  mountain-peak 

Where  clamorous  eag'ets  flutter  at  thy  call. 

Seaward  again  thou  turn'st  to  chase  the  storm 
M'here  winds  and  waters  furiously  roar! 

Above  the  doomed  ship  thy  boding  form 
Is  coming  Fate's  dark  shadow  cast  before  ! 

The  billows  that  engulf  man's  sturdy  frame 
As  sport  to  thy  careering  pinions  seem; 

And  though  to  silence  sinks  the  sailor's  nainn, 
H:?  end  is  told  in  thy  relentless  scream, 
195 


196 


C.  KINNEY. 


Where  the  great  cataract  sends  up  to  heaven 
Its  spray ey  incense  in  perpetual  cloud, 

Thy  wings  in  twain  the  sacred  bow  have  riven, 
And  onward  sailed  irreverently  proud. 

Unflinching  bird  !  no  frigid  clime  congeals 
The  fervid  blood  that  riots  in  thy  veins ; 

No  torrid  sun  thine  upborne  nature  feels — 
The  north,  the  south,  alike  are  thy  domains. 

Emblem  of  all  that  can  endure  or  dare, 
Art  thou,  bold  eagle,  in  thy  hardihood  ! 

Emblem  of  Freedom,  when  thou  cleav  'st  the  air — 
Emblem  of  Tyranny,  when  bathed  in  blood  ! 

Thou  wert  the  genius  of  Rome's  sanguine  wars : 
Heroes  have  fought  and  freely  b'ed  for  thee  ; 

And  here,  above  our  glorious  "  stripes  and  stars," 
We  hail  thy  signal  wings  of  Liberty  ! 

The  poet  sees  in  thee  a  type  sublime 
Of  his  far-reaching,  high-aspiring  art ! 

His  fancy  seeks  with  thee  each  starry  clime, 
And  thou  art  on  the  signet  of  his  heart. 

Be  still  the  symbol  of  a  spirit  free, 
Imperial  bird  !  to  unborn  ages  given — 

And  to  my  soul,  that  it  may  soar  like  thee, 
Steadfastly  looking  in  the  eye  of  Heaven ! 


ODE:    TO   THE   MOON. 

MYRIADS  have  sung  thy  praise, 
Fair  Dian,  virgin  goddess  of  the  skies ! 

And  myriads  will  raise 
Their  songs,  while  time  yet  onward  flies, 
To  thee,  chaste  prompter  of  the  lover's  sighs, 

And  of  the  minstrel's  lays ; 
But  still  exhaustless  as  a  theme 
Shall  be  thy  name 
While  lives  immortal  Fame — 
As  when,  to  people  the  first  poet's  dream, 
Thy  inspiration  came. 

None  ever  lived,  or  loved, 
Who  hath  not  thine  oblivious  influence  felt — 
As  if  a  silver  veil  hid  outward  things, 
While  some  bright  spirit's  wings 

Mysteriously  moved 

The  world  of  fancies  that  within  him  dwelt. 
Kegent  of  height,  what  is  this  charm  in  thee, 
That  sways  the  human  soul,  like  potent  witchery  1 

When  first  the  infant  learns  to  look  on  high — 
While  twilight's  drapery  his  heart  appals — 
Thy  full-orbed  presence  captivates  his  eye ; 
Or  when,  mid  shadows  grim  upon  the  walls, 
Are  sent  thy  pallid  rays, 
'T  is  awe  his  bosom  fills, 
And  trembling  joy  that  thrills 
His  tiny  frame,  and  fastens  his  young  gaze : 
Thy  spell'  is  on  that  heart, 
And  childhood  may  depart, 
But  it  shall  gather  strength  with  youthful  days; 
For  oft  as  thou,  capricious  moon, 

Shalt  wax  and  wane, 
He — now  perchance  a  lovesick  swain — 
Will  watch  thee  at  night's  stilly  noon, 
Pouring  his  passion  in  an  amorous  strain : 


Or,  with  the  mistress  of  his  soul, 
Lighted  by  thy  love-whispering  beams, 

In  some  secluded  garden  stroll, 
Bewildered  in  ambrosial  dreams; 
Nor  once  suspect,  while  his  full  pulses  move,  [love. 
That  thou,  whom  tides  obey,  mayst  turn  the  tide  of 

The  watcher  on  the  deep, 
Though  weary  be  his  eye, 

Forgets  even  downy  sleep, 

When  thou  art  in  the  sky ; 
For  with  thine  image  on  the  silvery  sea, 
A  thousand  forms  of  memory 

Whirl  in  a  mazy  dance ; 
And  when  he  upward  looks  to  thee, 

In  thy  far-reaching  glance 
There  is  a  sacred  bond  of  sympathy 

'Twixt  sea  and  land  ; 

Yes,  on  his  native  strand 
That  glance  awakens  kindred  souls 

To  kindred  thought ; 
And  though  the  deep  between  them  rolls, 

Hearts  are  together  brought ; 
While  tears  that  fall  from  eyes  at  home, 

And  those  that  wet  the  sailor's  cheek, 
From  the  same  holy  fountains  come, 

The  same  emotion  speak. 

The  watcher  on  the  land, 
Who  holds  the  burning  hand 
Of  one  whom  scorching  fever  wastes, 

Beholds  thee,  orient  Moon, 
With  reddened  face  expanded,  in  the  east, 
Till  superstition  chills  his  breast, 

While  tremulous  he  hastes 
To  draw  the  curtains  as  thou  journeyest  on; 
But  vhen  the  far-spent  night 
Is  streaked  with  dawning  light, 
Again,  to  look  on  thee, 
He  lifts  the  drapery, 
And  hope  divine  now  triumphs  over  fear, 

As  in  the  zenith  far, 
A  pale,  small  orb  thou  dost  appear, 
While  eastward  rises  morn's  resplendent  star; 
And  Fancy  sees  the  parting  soul  ascend 
Where  thy  mild  glories  with  the  azure  blend. 

Even  on  the  face  of  Death  thou  tookest  calm. 
Fair  Dian,  as  when  watchful  thou  didst  keep 
Love's  holy  vigils  o'er  Endymion's  sleep, 
Drinking  the  breath  of  youth's  perpetual  balm : 
Thy  beams  are  kissing  now 
The  icy  brow 
Of  many  a  youth  in  slumber  deep, 

Who  can  not  yield  to  thee 
The  incense  of  Love's  perfumed  breath — 
For  no  response  gives  death. 
Ah,  'tis  a  fearful  thing  to  see 
Thy  lustre  shine 
Upon  "  the  human  face  divine," 
From  which  the  spark  Promethean  has  fled ! 
As  when,  oh,  melancholy  Moon, 

Thy  light  is  shed 
Upon  the  marble  cold 
Of  that  famed  ruin  old — 
The  grand  but  silent  Parthenon. 
Dian,  enchantress  of  all  hearts ! 


E.  C.   KINNEY. 


107 


While  mine  in  song  now  worships  tbee, 
From  thy  far-reaching  bow  the  silver  darts 
Fall  thick  and  fast  on  me. 

Oh,  beautiful  in  light  and  shade 
By  thee  is  this  fair  landscape  made  ! 
Gems  sparkle  on  the  river's  breast, 
Now  covered  by  an  icy  vest ; 
Ijpon  the  frozen  hills 

A  regal  glory  shines, 
And  all  the  scene,  as  Fancy  wills, 

Shifts  into  new  designs  : 
Yet  night  is  still  as  Death's  unbroken  realms, 
And  solemnly  thy  beams,  wan  orb,  are  cast 
Through  the  arched  branches  of  these  reverend  elms, 
As  though  they  through  the  gothic  windows  past 
Of  some  old  abbey  or  cathedral  vast. 
In  awe  my  spirit  kneels, 

And  seems  before  a  hallowed  shrine ; 
Yet  not  the  majesty  of  art  it  feels, 

But  Nature's  law  divine — 
The  presence  of  her  mighty  Architect, 

Who  piled  these  pyramidic  hills  sublime, 
That  stiil,  fair  Moon,  thy  radiance  will  reflect, 
And  still  defy  the  crumbling  touch  of  Time ; 
Who  buiit  this  temple  of  gigantic  trees, 
Where  Nature's  worshippers  repair 
To  pray  the  heart's  unuttered  prayer — 
That  veil(  d  thought  which  the  Omniscient  sees. 
Oh,  I  could  muse,  and  still  adore 

Religious  Night,  and  thee,  her  queen ! 
Till  golden  Phoebus  should  restore 

His  splendor  to  the  scene  : 
But  natural  laws  thy  motions  sway, 

And  these  must  guide  the  poet's  will ; 
Thus,  while  the  soul  may  tireless  stray, 

This  actual  life  must  weary  still : 
Then  oh,  inspirer  of  my  song ! 

As  close  these  eyes  upon  thy  beams, 
Watching  amid  thy  starry  throng, 
Be  thou  the  goddess  of  my  dreams. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  SONG. 

ETKHXAL  Fame  !  thy  great  rewards, 

Throughout  all  time,  shall  be 
The  right  of  those  old  master  bards 

Of  Greece  and  Italy ; 
And  of  fair  Albion's  favored  isle, 
Where  Poesy's  celestial  smile 

Hath  shone  for  ages,  gilding  bright 
Her  rocky  cliffs  and  ancient  towers, 
And  cheering  this  New  World  of  ours 

With  a  reflected  light. 
Yet,  though  there  be  no  path  untrod 

By  that  immortal  race — 
Who  walked  with  Nature  as  with  God, 

And  saw  her  face  to  face — 
No  living  truth  by  them  unsung, 
No  thought  that  hath  not  found  a  tongue 

In  some  strong  lyre  of  olden  time —  ^ 
Must  every  tuneful  lute  be  still 
That  may  not  give  the  world  a  thrill 

Of  their  great  harp  sublime  ] 
Oh,  not  while  beating  hearts  rejoice 

In  music's  simplest  tone, 


And  hear  in  Nature's  every  voice 

An  echo  to  their  own  ! 
Not  till  these  scorn  the  little  rill 
That  runs  rejoicing  from  the  hill, 

Or  the  soft,  melancholy  glide 
Of  some  deep  stream  through  glen  and  glada 
Because  'tis  not  the  thunder  made 

By  ocean's  heaving  tide  ! 

The  hallowed  lilies  of  the  field 

In  glory  are  arrayed, 
And  timid,  blue-eyed  violets  yield 

Their  fragrance  to  the  shade ; 
Nor  do  the  wayside  flowers  conceal 
Those  modest  charms  that  sometimes  steal 

Upon  the  weary  traveller's  eyes 
Like  angels,  spreading  for  his  feet 
A  carpet,  filled  with  odors  sweet, 

And  decked  with  heavenly  dyes. 

Thus  let  the  affluent  soul  of  Song — 

That  all  with  flowers  adorns — 
Strew  life's  uneven  path  along, 

And  hide  its  thousand  thorns : 
Oh,  many  a  sad  and  weary  heart, 
That  treads  a  noiseless  way  apart, 

Has  blessed  the  humble  poet's  name 
For  fellowship,  refined  and  free, 
In  meek  wild-flowers  of  poesy, 

That  asked  no  higher  fame ! 

And  pleasant  as  the  waterfall 

To  one  by  deserts  bound, 
Making  the  air  all  musical 

With  cool,  inviting  sound — 
Is  oft  some  unpretending  strain 
Of  rural  song,  to  him  whose  brain 

Is  fevered  in  the  sordid  strife 
That  Avarice  breeds  'twixt  man  and  man, 
WThile  moving  on,  in  caravan, 

Across  the  sands  of  Life. 

Yet  not  for  these  alone  he  sings : 

The  poet's  breast  is  stirred 
As  by  the  spirit  that  takes  wings 

And  carols  in  the  bird  ! 
He  thinks  not  of  a  future  name, 
Nor  whence  his  inspiration  came, 

Nor  whither  goes  his  warbled  song : 
As  Joy  itself  delights  in  joy, 
His  soul  finds  life  in  its  employ, 

And  grows  by  utterance  strong. 


THE   QUAKERESS  BRIDE. 

(AN   EXTRACT.) 

THE  building  was  humble,  yet  sacred  to  One 
Who  heeds  the  deep  worship  that  utters  no  tone; 
Whose  presence  is  not  to  the  temple  confined, 
But  dwells  with  the  contrite  and  lowly  of  mind. 
'Twas  there  all  unveiled,  save  by  modesty,  stood 
The  Quakeress  bride  in  her  pure  satin  hood ; 
Her  charms  unadorned  by  the  garland  or  gem, 
Yet  fair  as  the  lily  just  plucked  from  its  stem. 
A  tear  glistened  bright  in  her  dark,  shaded  eye, 
And  her  bosom  half  uttered  a  tremulous  sigh, 
As  the  hand  she  had  pledged  was  confidingly  giver. 
And  the  low-murmured  accents  recorded  in  heaven. 


.93 


E.    C.   KINNEY. 


SONNETS. 

I.    CULTIVATION. 

WEE  us  grow  unasked,  and  even  some  sweet  flowers 
Spontaneous  give  their  fragrance  to  the  air, 
And  bloom  on  hills,  in  va'es.  and  everywhere — 

As  shines  the  sun,  or  fall  the  summer  showers — 
But  wither  while  our  lips  pronounce  them  fair! 
Flowers  of  more  worth  repay  alone  the  care, 

The  nurture,  and  the  hopes,  of  watchful  hours ; 

While  plants  most  cultured  have  most  lasting  pow- 
So,  flowers  of  genius  that  will  longest  live,  [ers. 

Spring  not  in  Mind's  uncultivated  soil, 

But  are  the  birth  of  time,  and  mental  toil, 
And  all  the  culture  Learning's  hand  can  give : 

Fancies  like  wild  flowers,  in  a  night  may  grow ; 

But  thoughts  are  plants  whose  stately  growth  is  slow. 


II.    ENCOURAfiE^EXT. 

WHEX  first  peeps  out  from  earth  the  modest  vine, 

Asking  but  little  space  to  live  and  grow, 
How  easily  some  step,  without  design, 

May  crush  the  being  from  a  thing  so  low ! 

But  let  the  hand  that  doth  delight  to  show 
Support  to  feebleness,  the  tendril  twine 

Around  some  lattice-work,  and  'twill  bestow 
Its  thanks  in  fragrance,  and  with  blossoms  shine  : 

And  thus,  when  Genius  first  puts  forth  its  shoot, 
So  timid,  that  it  scarce  dare  ask  to  live — 

The  tender  germ,  if  trodden  under  foot, 

Shrinks  back  again  to  its  undying  root; 
While  kindly  training  bids  it  upward  strive, 
And  to  the  future  flowers  immortal  give. 


III.    FADIXG    AUTUMX. 

TH'  autumnal  glories  all  have  passed  away ! 

The  forest  leaves  no  more  in  hectic  red 
Give  glowing  tokens  of  their  brief  decay, 

But  scattered  lie,  or  rustle  to  the  tread, 

Like  whisper'd  warnings  from  the  mouldering  dead. 
The  naked  trees  stretch  out  their  arms  all  day, 

And  each  bald  hilltop  lifts  its  reverend  head" 
As  if  for  some  new  covering  to  pray. 

Come  Winter,  then,  and  spread  thy  robe  of  white 
Above  the  desolation  of  this  scene , 

And  when  the  sun  with  gems  shall  make  it  bright, 
Or,  when  its  snowy  folds  by  midnight's  queen 

Are  silvered  o'er  with  a  serener  lisjht, 
We'll  cease  to  sigh  for  Summer's  living  green. 

IV.    A    WINTER    XI  OUT. 

How  calm,  how  solemn,  how  sublime  the  scene! 
The  moon  in  full-orbed  glory  sails  above, 
And  stars  in  myriads  around  her  move; 

Each  looking  down  with  watchful  eye  serene 
On  earth,  which  in  a  snowy  shroud  arrayed, 
And  still,  as  in  a  dreamless  sleep  'twere  laid, 

Saddens  the  spirit  with  its  deathlike  mien  :    • 
Yet  doth  it  charm  the  eye — its  gaze  still  hold; 
Ji^st  as  the  face  of  one  we  loved,  when  cold, 

And  pale,  and  lovely  e'en  in  death,  'tis  seen, 
Will  fix  the  mourner's  eye,  though  trembling  fears 
Fill  all  his  soul,  and  frequent  fall  his  tears. 

<  )h.  I  could  watch,  till  morn  shou'd  change  the  sight, 

Tins  cold  this  beautiful,  this  mournful  winter  night. 


T.    TO    THE    GREEK    SLAVE. 

BEAUTIFUL  model  of  creative  art! 

My  spirit  feels  the  reverence  for  thee, 

That  felt  the  ancients  for  a  deity : 
Ana  did  the  sculptor  shape  thee,  part  by  part, 
Fair,  as  if  whole  from  Genius'  mighty  heart 

Thou  'dst  sprung,  like  Venus  from  the  foaming  sea? 
Ah  !  not  for  show,  in  a  disgraceful  mart, 

Is  that  calm  look  of  conscious  purity  ; 
Nor  should  unhallowed  eye  presume  to  steal 
A  sensual  glance,  where  holy  minds  would  kneel, 

As  to  some  goddess  in  her  virgin  youth. 
But  who  could  shame  in  thy  pure  presence  feel, 

Save  those  who,  false  themselves,  must  shrink,  for- 

From  the  mild  lustre  of  ungarnished  truth  1  [sooth, 

VI.    TO     ARABELLA. 

THERE  is  a  pathos  in  those  azure  eyes, 

Touching,  and  beautiful,  and  strange,  fair  child  ! 

When  the  fringed  lids  upturn,  such  radiance  mild 
Beams  out  as  in  some  brimming  lakelet  lies, 
Which  undisturbed  reflects  the  cloudless  skies  : 

No  tokens  glitter  there  of  passion  wild, 
That  into  ecstasy  with  time  shall  rise ; 

But  in  the  deep  of  those  clear  orbs  are  signs — 

Which  Poesy's  prophetic  eye  divines — 
Of  woman's  love,  enduring,  undefiled  ! 
If,  like  the  lake  at  rest,  through  life  we  see 

Thy  face  reflect  the  heaven  that  in  it  shines, 
No  idol  to  thy  worshippers  thou  'It  be, 

For  he  will  worship  Heaven  who  worships  thee  , 


THE   WOODMAN. 

HE  shoulders  his  axe  for  the  woods,  and  away 
Hies  over  the  fields  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
And  merrily  whistles  some  tune  as  he  goes, 
So  heartily  trudging  along  through  the  snows. 

His  dog  scents  his  track,  and  pursues  to  a  mark, 
Now  sending  afar  the  shrill  tones  of  his  bark — 
Then  answering  the  echo  that  comes  back  again 
Through  the  clear  air  of  morn,  over  valley  and  plain. 

And  now  in  the  forest  the  woodman  doth  stand: 
His  eye  marks  the  victims  to  fall  by  his  hand, 
While  true  to  its  aim  is  the  ready  axe  found,  [sound 
And  quick  do  its  blows  through  the  woodland  re- 

The  proud  tree  low  bendeth  its  vigorous  form,  [storm: 
Whose  freshness  and  strength  have  braved  many  a 
And  the  sturdy  oak  shakes  that  never  trembled  before 
Though  the  years  of  its  glory  outnumber  threescore. 

They  fall  side  by  side — just  as  man  in  his  prime 
Lies  down  with  the  locks  that  are  whitened  by  time : 
The  trees  which  are  felled  into  ashes  will  burn, 
As  man,  by  Death's  blow,  unto  dust  must  return. 

But  twilight  approaches:  the  woodman  and  dog 
Come  plodding  together  through  snowdrift  and  bog, 
The  axe,  again  shouldered, its  day's  work  hath  done ; 
The  woodman  is  hungry — the  dog  wants  his  bone. 

Oh,  home  is  then  sweet,  and  the  evening  repast ! 
But  the  brow  of  the  woodman  with  thought  is  o'er 
He  is  conning  a  truth  to  be  tested  by  all —  [cast 
That  man,  like  the  trees  of  the  forest,  must  fall. 


ELIZABETH    F.    E  L  L  E  T. 

(Born  1818). 


MRS.  ELLET'S  father  was  Dr.  William  A. 
Lummis,  a  pupil  and  friend  of  Dr.  Benjamin 
Rush,  whom  in  person  he  strikingly  resem 
bled.  He  resided  several  years  in  Woodbu- 
ry,  New  Jersey  ;  but  afterward,  giving  up  the 
practice  of  his  profession,  removed  to  Sodus 
Bay,  on  Lake  Ontario,  in  the  state  of  New 
York,  where  he  purchased  lands  and  spent 
his  fortune  in  improving  them.  He  died  ma 
ny  years  ago,  eminently  respected  for  his  abil 
ities  and  honorable  character.  His  second 
wife,  the  mother  of  Mrs.  Ellet,  was  Sarah 
Maxwell,  a  daughter  of  John  Maxwell,  a  rev 
olutionary  officer,  and  niece  of  General  Wil 
liam  Maxwell,  who  served  in  the  army  with 
distinction  from  Braddock's  campaign  until 
near  the  close  of  the  war  of  independence, 
when  an  unjust  system  of  promotions  in 
duced  him  with  many  others  to  surrender 
his  commission. 

Miss  Lummis  was  married,  when  about 
seventeen  years  of  age,  to  Dr.  William  H. 
Ellet,  then  professor  of  chymistry  in  Colum 
bia  College,  in  New  York,  and  since  one  of 
the  professors  in  the  college  at  Columbia,  in 
South  Carolina,  where  she  resided  several 
years. 

Mrs.  Ellet  began  to  write  for  the  maga 
zines  in  1833,  and  in  the  following  year  ap 
peared  her  translation  of  Euphemia  of  Mes 
sina,  by  Silvio  Pellico.  In  the  spring  of 
1835  her  tragedy  of  Teresa  Contarini  was 
successfully  represented  in  New  York  and 
in  some  of  the  western  cities.  It  is  founded 
on  Nicolini's  Antonio  Foscarini,  which  illus 
trates  one  of  the  darkest  periods  in  Venetian 
history,  when  the  decrees  of  the  senate  and 
the  judgments  of  the  inquisitors  were  made 
most  subservient  to  private  purposes.  The 
play  is  of  the  classic  school,  and  it  is  too  de 
ficient  in  action  to  retain  a  place  upon  the 
stage.  In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  she 
published  in  Philadelphia  a  volume  entitled 
Poems,  Translated  and  Original. 

From  this  period  until  it  ceased  to  be  pub 
lished,  Mrs.  Eilet  was  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  American  Quarterly  Review,  for  which 
she  wrote  papers  on  Italian  Tragedy,  The 


Italian  Lyric  Poets,  Lamartine's  Poems,  Hu« 
go's  Dramas,  The  Troubadours,  Andreini's 
Adam,  (the  work  which  suggested  to  Milton 
the  idea  of  his  Paradise  Lost,)  &c. 

In  1841  she  published  The  Character  of 
Schiller,  an  analysis  and  criticism  of  tbeprin 
cipal  persons  in  Schiller's  plays,  with  trans 
lated  extracts,  and  an  essay  on  Schiller's  ge 
nius.  Her  next  work  was  Joanna  of  Sicily, 
a  series  of  passages  in  the  life  of  tht  queen 
of  Naples,  a  blending  of  fact  and  fiction,  with 
a  coloring  of  the  manners  of  the  middle  ages. 
This  was  followed  by  Country  Rambles,  a 
volume  designed  for  juvenile  readers,  and  de 
scriptive  of  scenery  in  various  parts  of  the 
United  States.  -^ 

The  last  production  of  Mrs.  Ellet,  The 
Women  of  the  American  Revolution,  in  two 
volumes,  was  published  in  New  York  in 
the  autumn  of  1848.  Her  object  was  to  il 
lustrate  the  action  and  influence  of  her  sex 
in  the  achievement  of  our  national  indepen 
dence  ;  to  exhibit  something  of  the  character 
and  feeling  of  our  heroic  age,  in  the  domestic 
side  of  the  picture  ;  and  with  the  assistance 
of  a  few  gentlemen  more  familiar  than  her 
self  with  our  public  and  domestic  experi 
ence,  she  has  made  a  valuable  and  interest 
ing  work. 

From  time  to  time  Mrs.  Ellet  has  also  pub 
lished  papers  in  the  North  American  Review, 
the  Southern  Quarterly  Review,  and  several 
of  the  monthly  magazines,  upon  many  sub 
jects  of  literature,  art,  and  history,  which 
evince  considerable  scholarship  and  literary 
dexterity. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Ellet  do  not  perhaps 
evince  much  of  the  inspiration  of  genius,  nor 
have  they  the  freshness  which  distinguishes 
much  verse  that  is  very  inferior  in  execution  ; 
but  while  we  rarely  perceive  in  them  any 
thing  that  is  striking,  they,  as  well  as  her 
prose  works,  are  uniformly  respectable.  The 
most  creditable  illustrations  of  her  abilities 
seem  to  be  her  translations  from  me  French 
and  Italian  languages,  in  which  she  has  oc 
casionally  been  remarkably  successful. 

Mrs.  Ellet  now  resides  in  New  "YorK 

199 


200 


ELIZABETH   F.   ELLET. 


SUSQ.UE  HANNAH. 

SOFTLY  the  blended  light  of  evening  rests 
Upon  thce,  lovely  stream  !     Thy  gentle  tide, 
Picturing  the  gorgeous  heautv  of  the  sky, 
Onward,  unhroken  by  the  ruffling  wind, 
Majestically  flows.     Oh,  by  thy  side, 
Far  from  the  tumults  and  the  throng  of  men, 
And  tie  vain  cares  that  vex  poor  human  life, 
'Twcre  happiness  to  dwell,  alone  with  thee, 
And  the  wide,  so'emn  grandeur  of  the  scene. 
From  thy  green  shores,  the  mountains  that  enclose 
In  their  vast  sweep  the  beauties  of  the  plain, 
Slowly  receding,  toward  the  skies  ascend, 
Enrobed  with  clustering  woods,  o'er  which  the  smile 
Of  Autumn  in  his  loveliness  hath  passed, 
Touching  their  foliage  with  his  brilliant  hues, 
And  flinging  o'er  the  lowliest  leaf  and  shrub 
His  golden  livery.     On  the  distant  heights 
Soil  clouds,  earth-based,  repose,  and  stretch  afar 
Their  burnished  summits  in  the  clear,  blue  heaven, 
Flooded  with  splendor,  that  the  dazzled  eye 
Turns  drooping  from  the  sight.     Nature  is  here 
Like  a  throned  sovereign,  and  thy  voice  doth  tell, 
In  music  never  silent,  of  her  power. 
Nor  are  thy  tones  unanswered,  where  she  bui'ds 
Such  monuments  of  regal  sway.     These  wide, 
Untrodden  forests  eloquently  speak, 
Whether  the  breath  of  summer  stir  their  depths, 
Or  the  hoarse  moaning  of  November's  blast 
Strip  from  the    boughs  their  covering.  All  the  air 
Is  now  instinct  with  life.     The  merry  hum 
Of  the  returning  bee,  and  the  blithe  song 
Of  fluttering  bird,  mocking  the  solitude, 
Swell  upward;  and  the  play  of  dashing  streams 
From  the  green  mountain-side  is  faintly  heard. 
The  wild  swan  swims  the  waters'  azure  breast 
With  graceful  sweep,  or,  startled,  soars  away, 
Cleaving  with  mounting  wing  the  clear,  bright  air. 

Oh,  in  the  boasted  lands  beyond  the  deep, 
Where  Beauty  hath  a  birthright,  where  each  mound 
And  mouldering  ruin  tells  of  ages  past — 
And  every  breeze,  as  with  a  spirit's  tone, 
Doth  waft  the  voices  of  Oblivion  back, 
Waking  the  soul  to  lofty  memories, 
Is  there  a  scene  whose  loveliness  could  fill 
The  heart  with  peace  more  pure  ?  Nor  yet  art  thou, 
Proud  stream  !  without  thy  records— graven  deep 
On  von  eternal  hills,  which  shall  endure 
Long  as  their  summits  breast  the  wintry  storm, 
Or  smile  in  the  warm  sunshine.     They  have  been 
The  chroniclers  of  centuries  gone  by  : 
Of  a  stransre  race,  who  trod  perchance  their  sides, 
Ere  these  gray  woods  had  sprouted  from  the  earth 
Which  now  they  shade.     Here  onward  swept  thy 

waves, 

When  tones  now  silent  mingled  with  their  sound, 
And  the  wide  shore  was  vocal  with  the  song 
Of  hunter  chief,  or  lover's  gentle  strain. 
Those  passed  away — forgotten  as  they  passed; 
But  holier  recollections  dwell  with  thee  : 
Here  hath  immortal  Freedom  built  her  proud 
And  solemn  monuments.     The  mighty  dust 
Of  heroes  in  her  cause  of  glory  fallen* 
Hath  mingled  with  the  soil  and  hallowed  it. 
Thy  waters  in  tneir  brilliant  path  have  seen 


The  desperate  strife  that  won  a  rescued  world — 
The  deeds  of  men  who  live  in  grateful  hearts, 
And  hymned  their  requiem.  Far  beyond  this  vale, 
That  sends  to  heaven  its  incense  of  lone  flowers, 
Gay  village  spires  ascend  — and  the  glad  voice 
Of  industry  is  heard.     So  in  the  lapse 
Of  future  years  these  ancient  woods  shall  bow 
Beneath  the  levelling  axe — and  man's  abodes 
Displace  their  sylvan  honors.     They  will  pass 
In  turn  away ;  yet,  heedless  of  all  change, 
Surviving  all,  thou  still  wilt  murmur  on, 
Lessoning  the  fleeting  race  that  look  on  thee 
To  mark  the  wrecks  of  time,  and  read  their  doom. 


LAKE  ONTARIO. 

DEKP  thoughts  o'ershade  my  spirit  while  I  gaze 

Upon  the  blue  depths  of  thy  mighty  breast; 
Thy  glassy  face  is  bright  with  sunset  rays, 

And  thy  far-stretching  waters  are  at  rest, 
Save  the  small  wave  that  on  thy  margin  plays, 

Lifting  to  summer  airs  its  flashing  crest : 
While  the  fleet  hues  across  thy  surface  driven, 
Ming'e  afar  in  the  embrace  of  heaven. 
Thy  smile  is  glorious  when  the  morning's  spring 

Gives  ha'f  its  glowing  beauty  to  the  deep ; 
When  the  dusk  swallow  dips  his  drooping  wing, 

And  the  gay  winds  that  o'er  thy  bosom  sweep 
Tribute  from  dewy  woods  and  violets  bring, 

Thy  restless  billows  in  their  gifts  to  steep. 
Thou't  beautiful  when  evening  moonbeams  shine, 
And  the  soft  hour  of  night  and  stars  is  thine. 
Thou  hast  thy  tempests,  too ;  the  lightning's  home 

Is  near  thee,  though  unseen  ;  thy  peaceful  shore, 
When  storms  have  lashed  these  waters  into  foam, 

Echoes  fu'.l  oft  the  pealing  thunder's  roar. 
Thou  hast  dark  trophies:  the  unhonored  tomb 

Of  those  now  sought  and  wept  on  earth  no  more : 
Full  many  a  goodly  form,  the  loved  and  brave, 
Lies  whelmed  and  still  beneath  thy  sullen  wave. 
The  world  was  young  with  thee :  this  swelling  flood 

As  proudly  swelled,  as  purely  met  the  sky, 
When  sound  of  life  roused  not  the  ancient  wood, 

Save  the  wild  eagle's  scream,  or  panther's  cry : 
Here  on  this  verdant  bank  the  savage  stood. 

And  shook  his  dart  and  battle-axe  on  high, 
While  hues  of  slaughter  tinged  thy  billows  blue, 
As  deeper  and  more  close  the  conflict  grew. 

Here,  too,  at  early  morn,  the  hunter's  song 
Was  heard  from  wooded  isle  and  grassy  glade 

And  here,  at  eve,  these  clustered  bowers  among, 
The  low,  sweet  carol  of  the  Indian  maid, 

Chiding  the  slumbering  breeze  and  shadows  long, 
That  kept  her  lingering  lover  from  the  shade, 

While,  scarcely  seen,  thy  willing  waters  o'er, 

Sped  the  light  bark  that  bore  him  to  the  shore. 

Those  scenes  are  past.  The  spirit  of  changing  years 
Has  breathed  on  all  around,  save  thee  alone. 

More  faintly  the  receding  woodland  hears 
Thy  voice,  once  full  and  joyous  as  its  own. 

Nations  have  gone  from  earth,  nor  trace  appears 
To  tell  their  tale — forgotten  or  unknown  : 

Yet  here,  unchanged,  untamed,  thy  waters  lie. 

Azure,  and  clear,  and  boundless  as  the  sky. 


ELIZABETH    F.  ELLET. 


20 ' 


THE  DELAWARE  WATER-GAP. 

OUR  western  land  can  boast  no  lovelier  spot. 
The  hills  which  in  their  ancient  grandeur  stand, 
Piled  to  the  frowning  clouds,  the  bulwarks  seem 
Of  this  wild  scene,  resolved  that  none  but  Heaven 
Shall  look  upon  its  beauty.     Round  their  breast 
A  curtained  fringe  depends,  of  golden  mist, 
Touched  by  the  slanting  sunbeams ;  while  below 
The  silent  river,  with  majestic  sweep, 
Pursues  his  shadowed  way — his  glassy  face 
Unbroken,  save  when  stoops  the  lone  wild  swan 
To  float  in  pride,  or  dip  his  ruffled  wing. 
Talk  ye  of  solitude  1 — It  is  not  here. 
Nor  silence. — Low,  deep  murmurs  are  abroad. 
Those  towering  hills  hold  converse  with  the  sky 
That  smiles  upon  their  summits ;  and  the  wind 
Which  stirs  their  wooded  sides,  whispers  of  life, 
And  bears  the  burden  sweet  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
Bidding  the  stately  forest-boughs  look  bright, 
And  nod  to  greet  his  coming !     And  the  brook, 
That  with  its  silvery  gleam  comes  leaping  down 
From  the  hillside,  has,  too,  a  tale  to  tell ; 
The  wild  bird's  music  mingles  with  its  chime ; 
And  gay  young  flowers,  that  blossom  in  its  path, 
Send  forth  their  perfume  as  an  a*dded  gift. 
The  river  utters,  too,  a  solemn  voice, 
And  tells  of  deeds  long  past,  in  ages  gone, 
When  not  a  sound  was  heard  along  his  shores, 
Save  the  wild  tread  of  savage  feet,  or  shriek 
Of  some  expiring  captive — and  no  bark 
E'er  cleft  his  gloomy  waters.     Now,  his  waves 
Are  vocal  often  with  the  hunter's  song ; 
Now  visit,  in  their  glad  and  onward  course, 
The  abodes  of  happy  men,  gardens  and  fields, 
And  cultured  plains — still  bearing,  as  they  pass, 
Fertility  renewed  and  fresh  delights. 

The  time  has  been — so  Indian  legends  say — 
When  here  the  mighty  Delaware  poured  not 
His  ancient  waters  through,  but  turned  aside 
Through  yonder  dell  and  washed  those  shaded  vales. 
Then,  too,  these  riven  cliffs  were  one  smooth  hill, 
Which  smiled  in  the  warm  sunbeams,  and  displayed 
The  wea'th  of  summer  on  its  graceful  slope. 
Thither  the  hunter-chieftains  oft  repaired 
To  light  their  council-fires ;  while  its  dim  height, 
For  ever  veiled  in  mist,  no  mortal  dared, 
'T  is  said,  to  scale  ;  save  one  white-haired  old  man, 
Who  there  held  commune  with  the  Indian's  God, 
And  thence  brought  down  to  men  his  high  com 
mands. 

Years  passed  away :  the  gifted  seer  had  lived 
Beyond  life's  natural  term,  and  bent  no  more 
His  weary  limbs  to  seek  the  mountain's  summit. 
New  tribes  had  filled  the  land,  of  fiercer  mien, 
Who  strove  against  each  other.     Blood  and  death 
Filled  those  green  shades  where  all  before  was  peace, 
And  the  stern  warrior  scalped  his  dying  captive 
E'en  on  the  precincts  of  that  holy  spot     [mourned 
Where  the  Great  Spirit  had  been.    Some  few,  who 
The  unnatural  slaughter,  urged  the  aged  priest 
Again  to  seek  the  consecrated  height, 
Succor  from  Heaven,  and  mercy  to  implore. 
They  watched  him  from  afar.     He  labored  slowly 
High  up  the  steep  ascent,  and  vanished  soon 


Behind  the  folded  clouds,  which  clustered  dark 
As  the  last  hues  of  sunset  passed  away. 
The  night  fell  heavily ;  and  soon  were  heard 
Low  tones  of  thunder  from  the  mountain-top, 
Muttering,  and  echoed  from  the  distant  hills  _ 
In  deep  and  solemn  peal ;  while  lurid  flashes 
Of  lightning  rent  anon  the  gathering  gloom. 
Then,  wilder  and  more  loud,  a  fearful  crash 
Burst  on  the  startled  ear :  the  earth,  convulsed, 
Groaned  from  its  solid  centre ;  forests  shook 
For  leagues  around ;  and,  by  the  sudden  gleam 
Which  flung  a  fitful  radiance  on  the  spot, 
A  sight  of  dread  was  seen.     The  mount  was  rent 
From  top  to  base;  and  where  so  late  had  smiled 
Green  boughs  and  blossoms,  yawned  a  frightful 

chasm, 

Filled  with  unnatural  darkness.     From  afar 
The  distant  roar  of  waters  then  was  heard  : 
They  came,  with  gathering  sweep,  o'erwhelming  all 
That  checked  their  headlong  course ;  the  rich  maize 
The  low-roofed  hut,  its  sleeping  inmates — all  [field, 
Were  swept  in  speedy,  undistinguished  ruin  ! 
Morn  looked  upon  the  desolated  scene 
Of  the  Great  Spirit's  anger,  and  beheld 
Strange  waters  passing  through  the  cloven  rocks ; 
And  men  looked  on  in  silence  arid  in  fear, 
And  far  removed  their  dwellings  from  the  spot, 
Where  now  no  more  the  hunter  chased  his  prey, 
Or  the  war-whoop  was  heard.  Thus  years  went  on : 
Each  trace  of  desolation  vanished  fast; 
Those  bare  and  blackened  cliffs  were  overspread 
With  fresh,  green  foliage,  and  the  swelling  earth 
Yielded  her  stores  of  flowers  to  deck  their  sides. 
The  river  passed  majestically  on 
Through  his  new  channel;  verdure  graced  his  banks; 
The  wild  bird  murmured  sweetly  as  before 
In  its  beloved  woods ;  and  naught  remained, 
Save  the  wild  tales  which  hoary  chieftains  told, 
To  mark  the  change  celestial  vengeance  wrought. 

EXTRACTS  FROM   TERESA  CONTARINI. 

INSENSIBILITY. 

My  heart  is  senseless.     It  is 'cold — cold — cold! 
Steeled  in  an  apathy  more  deep  than  wo, 
Which  even  keen  Thought  can  never  pierce  again. 
What  nights  of  feverish  unrest  I've  borne, 
What  days  of  weeping  and  of  bitterness, 
When  I  have  schooled  me  to  a  mocking  calmness, 
While  my  heart  ached  within !     But  all  is  past! 
My  spirit  is  a  waste  o'er  which  hath  raged 
The  desolating  fire,  to  leave  its  trace 
In  blackened  ruins.     I  can  feel  no  more ! 
Would  that  I  could  !    I  'd  rather  bear  the  gnawing 
Of  anguish,  than  this  dull,  dead,  frozen  void, 
In  which  all  sense  is  buried. 


LOTE,    IX    YOUTH    AXD    ARE. 

How  doth  Youth 

Wear  his  soft  yoke  1    More  lightly  than  he  wears 
The  pageant  plume,  which  every  fickle  wind 
Stirs  at  its  will,  to  be  thrown  careless  by, 
When  he  shall  weary  of  its  pride !     To  youth 
Love  is  the  shallow  rill  that  mocks  the  sunshine, 
Wasting  its  strength  in  idle  foam  away , 


ELIZABETH    F.   ELLET. 


To  age,  the  rivor.  silort,  broad,  and  deep — 
Hiding  the  wealth  of  years  within  its  breast — 
Baffling  the  vain  eye  that  would  read  its  depths 
Broader  and  deeper  growing,  as  the  channel 
Of  life  wears  on  ! 


SODUS  BAY. 

I  BLESS  thee,  native  shore  ! 
Thy  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparkling  clear ! 

'Tis  like  a  dream  once  more 
The  music  of  thy  thousand  waves  to  hear, 

As,  murmuring  up  the  sand, 
With  kisses  bright  they  lave  the  sloping  land. 

The  gorgeous  sun  looks  down, 
Bathing  thee  gladly  in  his  noontide  ray ; 

And  o'er  thy  headlands  brown 
With  loving  light  the  tints  of  evening  play : 

Thy  whispering  breezes  fear 
To  break  the  calm  so  softly  hallowed  here. 

Here,  in  her  green  domain, 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  sovereignty  is  found ; 

With  scarce  disputed  reign 
She  dwells  in  all  the  solitude  around  : 

And  here  she  loves  to  wear 
The  regal  garb  that  suits  a  queen  so  fair. 

Full  oft  my  heart  hath  yearned 
For  thy  sweet  shades  and  vales  of  sunny  rest ; 

Even  as  the  swan  returned. 
Stoops  to  repose  upon  thy  azure  breast, 

I  greet  each  welcome  spot 
Forsaken  long — but  ne'er,  ah,  ne'er  forgot. 

'Twas  here  that  memory  grew —        [left; 
T  was  here  that  childhood's  hopes  and  cares  were 

Its  early  freshness,  too — 
Ere  droops  the  soul,  of  her  best  joys  bereft  : 

Where  are  they  ? — o'er  the  track 
Of  cold  years,  I  would  call  the  wanderers  back  ! 

They  must  be  with  thee  still : 
Thou  art  unchanged — as  bright  the  sunbeams  play: 

From  not  a  tree  or  hill 
Hath  time  one  hue  of  beauty  snatched  away 

Unchanged  alike  should  be 
The  blessed  things  so  late  resigned  to  thee. 

Give  back,  oh,  smiling  deep, 
T'ne  heart's  fair  sunshine,  and  the  dreams  of  youth 

That  in  thy  bosom  sleep — 
Life's  April  innocence,  and  trustful  truth  ! 

The  tones  that  breathed  of  yore 
In  thy  lone  murmurs,  once  again  restore. 

Where  have  they  vanished  all  ? 

l  »uly  the  heedless  winds  in  answer  sigh  ; 

Still  rushing  at  thy  call, 
With  reckless  sweep  the  streamlet  flashes  by  ! 

And  idle  as  the  air, 
Ur  fleeting  stream,  my  soul's  insatiate  prayer. 

Home  of  sweet  thoughts — farewell  ! 
Where'er  through  changeful  life  my  lot  may  be, 

A  deep  and  hallowed  spell  " 
I*  on  thy  waters  and  thy  woods  for  me  : 

Though  vainly  fancy  craves 
Its  childhood  with  the  music  of  thy  waves. 


O'ER  THE  WILD  WASTE. 

O'ER  the  wild  waste  where  flowers  of  hope  lay  dead, 

And  wan  rays  struggled  faintly  through  the  gloom, 
Like  starbeams  on  the  midnight  waters  shed — 

Thou  hast  brought  back  the  sunshineand  thebloom 
Like  the  free  bird  at  heaven's  blue  portal  singing, 

Thy  coming  heralded  the  auspicious  morn  ; 
And  go'den  songs,  and  airy  shapes  upspringirig, 

In  answering  joy  from  night's  dark  breast  were  boni. 
Thou  art  the  flower,  whence  zephyrs'  balm  is  stealing: 

The  fountain,  sparkling  in  the  smile  of  day  : 
The  sunwrought  iris,  in  the  cloud  revealing 

More  tints  than  on  the  radiant  sunset  play. 
Blessings  be  with  thee,  oh,  thou  happy  hearted  ! 

For  thoughts  of  beauty,  fresh,  and  glad,  and  wild — 
For  visions  of  enchantment  long  departed, 

Bright  as  when  first  they  dawned  on  Fancy's  child ' 
The  Beautiful,  that  from  life's  sky  had  faded, 

Fleet  dream  of  joy — ere  passed  the  morning  ray, 
Shines  forth,  by  sorrow's  wing  no  longer  shaded, 

And  pours  again  a  sunshine  on  my  way. 
No  rainbow  lustre  to  thy  life's  sweet  dreaming, 

No  gifts  like  thine,  alas  !  can  she  impart,    [ing — 
Whose  trust,  lone  dove  o'er  darkened  waters  gleam- 
Comes  home  to  nestle  in  her  pining  heart ! 
Yet  go  thy  way,  blest  evermore  and  blessing!  [prayer; 

Heaven  scorns  not,  nor  wilt  thou,  one  deep  heart's 
And  mine  shall  be,  that  earth's  best  joys  possessing, 

God's  love  may  guard  thee — his  peculiar  care  ! 

SONG. 
COME,  fill  a  pledge  to  sorrow, 

The  song  of  mirth  is  o'er, 
And  if  there 's  sunshine  in  our  hearts, 

'T  will  light  our  theme  the  more  : 
And  pledge  we  dull  life's  changes, 

As  round  the  swift  hours  pass — 
Too  kind  were  fate,  if  none  but  gems 

Should  sparkle  in  Time's  glass. 
The  dregs  and  foam  together 

Unite  to  crown  the  cup, 
And  well  we  know  the  weal  and  wo 

That  fill  life's  chalice  up  ! 
Life's  sickly  revellers  perish — 

The  goblet  scarcely  drained  : 
Then  lightly  quaff,  nor  lose  the  sweets 

Which  may  not  be  retained. 
WThat  reck  we  that  unequal 

Its  varying  currents  swell — 
The  tide  that  bears  our  pleasures  down, 

Buries  our  griefs  as  well  ; 
And  if  the  swift-winged  tempest 

Have  crossed  our  changeful  day, 
The  wind  that  tossed  our  bark  has  swept 

Full  many  a  cloud  away. 
Then  grieve  not  that  naught  mortal 

Endures  through  passing  years  : 
Did  life  one  changeless  tenor  keep, 

'Twere  cause,  indeed,  for  tears. 
And  fill  we,  ere  our  parting, 

A  mantling  pledge  to  sorrow  : 
The  pang  that  wrings  the  heart  to-dar 

Time's  touch  will  lisal  to-morrow  ! 


ELIZABETH    F.   ELLET. 


203 


THE  OLD  LOVE. 

THE  old  love — the  old  love — 

It  hath  a  master  spell, 
And  in  its  home — the  human  heart — 

It  worketh  strong  and  well  : 
Ay,  well  and  sure  it  worketh, 

And  casteth  out  amain 
Intrusive  shapes  of  evil — 

A  sullen,  spectral  train  : 
The  serpent,  Pride,  is  crested, 

And  Hate  hath  lips  of  gall ; 
But  the  old  love — the  old  love — 

'T  is  stronger  than  them  all ! 

Years,  weary  years  have  vanished, 

Lady,  since  whisperers  wrought 
The  work  that  sundered  you  and  me, 

With  words  that  poison  thought : 
Ah  !  lasting  is  the  sorrow 

Of  a  deep  and  hidden  wound, 
When  with  the  coming  morrow 

No  healing  balm  is  found  ; 
And  easy  'tis  with  words  to  hide 

The  stricken  spirit's  yearning, 
And  wear  a  look  of  icy  pride 

When  the  heart  within  is  burning  ! 

Oh,  'tis  a  bitter,  bitter  thing, 

Beneath  God's  holy  sky, 
To  fill  that  sentient  thing,  the  heart, 

With  strife  and  enmity  ! 
Yea,  wo  to  those  who  plant  the  seed 

That  yieldeth  naught  but  dole — 
To  those  who  thus  do  murder 

God's  image  in  the  soul ! 
Yet  silently  and  softly 

The  dews  of  mercy  fall : 
And  the  old  love — the  old  love — 

It  triumphs  over  all. 

It  was  but  yestereven 

A  vision  light  and  free, 
From  the  old  and  happy  dreamland, 

Came  gliding  down  to  me  : 
A  vision,  lady,  of  the  past, 

The  cottage  far  away, 
Where  you  and  I  together 

Oft  sat  at  close  of  day — 
Where  you  and  I  together 

Oft  watched  the  starlit  skies, 
And  the  soul  of  gentle  kindness 

Beamed  on  me  from  your  eyes  : 

And  there  were  gentle  voices, 

Like  some  remembered  song, 
And  there  were  hovering  shadows, 

A  pale  and  beauteous  throng  ! 
They  seemed  like  blessed  angels, 

Those  kindly  memories — 
That  floated  on  their  beaming  wings, 

To  steep  the  soiil  in  peace  ' 
They  smiled  upon  me  softly, 

Though  ne'er  a  word  was  spo'ice — 
And  then  the  golden  past  came  back, 

And  then — my  proud  heart  broke  ! 


And,  lady,  from  the  vision 

I  wistful  rose  to  pray, 
That  unto  ruling  love  might  be 

The  victory  alway  : 
Oh,  many  are  its  cruel  foes — 

A  host  well  armed  and  strong, 
And  that  fair  garnished  chamber 

Hath  been  their  duelling  long  : 
But  the  old  love — the  old  love — 

It  hath  a  master  spell, 
And  in  its  home — the  human  heart — 

It  worketh  sure  and  well ! 


THE   SEA-KINGS. 

1  They  are  rightly  named  sea-kings,"  says  the  author  of  the  Ingli-igm- 
saga,  '•  who  never  seek  shelter  under  a  roof,  and  never  dram  their 
drinking-horn  at  a  cottage  fire." 

Oun  realm  is  mighty  Ocean, 

The  broad  and  sea-green  wave 
That  ever  hails  our  greeting  gaze — 

Our  dwelling-place  and  grave  ! 
For  us  the  paths  of  glory  lie 

Far  on  the  swelling  deep ; 
And,  brothers  to  the  Tempest, 

We  shrink  not  at  his  sweep ! 

Our  music  is  the  storm-blast 

In  fierceness  revelling  nigh, 
When  on  our  graven  bucklers  gleam 

His  lightnings  glancing  by. 
Yet  most  the  flash  cf  war-steel  keen 

Is  welcome  in  our  sight, 
When  flies  the  startled  foeman 

Before  our  falchions'  light. 
We  ask  no  peasant's  shelter, 

We  seek  no  noble's  bowers ; 
Yet  they  must  yield  us  tribute  meet, 

For  all  they  boast  is  ours. 
No  cast'ed  prince  his  wide  domain 

Dares  from  our  yoke  to  free ; 
Arid,  like  mysterious  Odin, 

WTe  rule  the  land  and  sea ! 

Rear  high  the  blood-red  banner  ! 

Its  folds  in  triumph  wave — 
And  long  unsullied  may  it  stream 

The  standard  of  the  brave  ! 
Our  swords  outspec-u  the  meteor's  glance  : 

The  world  their  might  shall  know, 
So  long  as  iieaven  snines  o'er  us, 

Or  ocean  roils  below  ! 


VENICE. 

From  afar 

The  surgelike  tone  of  multitudes,  the  hum 
Of  glad,  familiar  voices,  and  the  wild 
Faint  music  of  the  happy  gondolier, 
Float  up  in  Mended  murmurs.     Queen  of  cities' 
Goddess  of  ocean  !  with  the  beauty  crowned 
Of  Aphrodite  from  her  parent  deep  ! 
If  thine  Ausonian  heaven  denies  the  strength 
That  nerves  a  mountain  race  of  sterner  mould, 
It  gives  thee  charms  whose  very  softness  wins 
All  hearts  to  worship ! 


204 


ELIZABETH    F.  ELLET. 


SONNETS. 

MAIIT     MAGIIALKX. 

,  tho'  grief  and  shame  o'erflow  thine  eyes; 

Blessed,  though  scoffed  at  by  the  gazing  crowd: 

He  unto  whom  thou  kneelst  rebukes  the  proud, 
And  bids  thee  now  the  child  of  Heaven  arise. 
Hath  he  rot  said,  that  where  the  bramble  grew 

The  myrtle  should  come  up  ?   the  sweet  fir  tree 

Replace  the  thorn,  and  grass  abundantly 
Wave  where  the  desert  land  no  moisture  knew  1 

But  see  the  bleak  and  lonely  wilderness 
With  fragrant  roses,  like  a  garden  bloom — 

The  perished  tree  revive,  again  to  bless  ! 
See,  fed  with  streams,  the  thirsty  land  rejoice — 
And  hear  the  waste  lift  up  its  gladsome  voice, 

"  To  taste  his  fruits,  let  my  Beloved  come." 


THE    GOOD    SHEPHKHI). 

SHEPHERD, with  meek  brow  wreathed  with  blossoms 
sweet, 

Who  guardst  thy  timid  flock  with  tenderest  care, 
Who  guid'st  in  sunny  paths  their  wandering  feet, 

And  the  young  lambs  dost  in  thy  bosom  bear; 

Who  leadst  thy  happy  Hock  to  pastures  fair, 
And  by  still  waters  at  the  noon  of  day  — 

Charming  with  lute  divine  the  silent  air, 
What  time  they  linger  on  the  verdant  way : 

Good  Shepherd  !   might  one  gentle,  distant  strain 
Of  that  immortal  melody  sink  deep 
Into  my  heart,  and  pierce  its  careless  sleep, 

And  melt  by  powerful  love  its  sevenfo'd  chain: 
Oh,  then  my  soul  thv  voice  should  know,  and  flee 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock,  and  ever  follow  Thee  ! 


OH,    WEARY    HEART. 

OH,  weary  heart,  there  is  a  rest  for  thee  ! 

Oh  truant  heart,  there  is  a  blessed  home — 
An  is  e  of  gladness  on  life's  wayward  sea, 

Where  storms  that  vex  the  waters  never  come; 
There  trees  perennial  yield  their  balmy  shade, 

There  flower-wreathed  hi  Is  in  sun.it  beauty  sleep, 
There  meek  streams  murmur  thro' the  verdant  glade, 

There  heaven  bends  smiling  o'er  the  placid  deep. 
Winnowed  by  wings  immortal  that  fair  isle; 

Vocal  its  air  with  music  from  above  : 
There  meets  the  exiie  eve  a  vve'coming  smile; 

There  ever  speaks  a  summoning  voice  of  love 
Unto  the  heavy-laden  and  distressed, 
"  Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 


"ABIDE   WITH  US." 

«  ABIDE  with  us  !     The  evening  hour  draws  on  ; 
And  pleasant  at  the  daylight's  fading  close 

The  traveller's  repose  ! 

A  nd  as  at  morn's  approach  the  shades  are  gone, 
Thy  words,  oh,  blessed  stranger,  have  dispelled 
The  midnight  gloom  in  which  our  souls  were  held. 

Sad  \\-ereoursouls,  and  quenched  hope's  latest  ray, 
But  thou  to  us  hast  words  of  comfort  given 

Of  Him  who  came  from  heaven  ! 
How  burned  our  hearts  within  us  on  the  way, 
While  thou  the  sacred  scripture  didst  unfold, 
And  bad'st  us  trust  the  promise  given  of  old. 


Abide  with  us  :  let  us  not  lose  thee  yet ! 
Lest  unto  us  the  cloud  of  fear  return, 

When  we  are  left  to  mourn 
That  Israel's  Hope — his  better  Sun — is  set ! 
Oh,  teach  us  more  of  what  we  long  to  know, 
That  new-born  joy  may  chide  our  faithless  wo." 

Thus  in  their  sorrow  the  disciples  prayed, 
And  knew  not  He  was  walking  by  their  side 

Who  on  the  cross  had  died  ! 
But  when  he  broke  the  consecrated  bread, 
Then  saw  they  who  had  deigned  to  bless  their  board, 
And  in  the  stranger  hailed  their  risen  Lord. 

"Abide  with  us  !"     Thus  the  believer  prays, 
Compassed  with  doubt  and  bitterness  and  dread — 

W  hen,  as  life  from  the  dead, 
The  bow  of  mercy  breaks  upon  his  gaze  : 
He  trusts  the  word,  yet  fears  lest  from  his  heart 
He  whose  discourse  is  peace  too  soon  depart. 

Open,  thou  trembling  one,  the  portal  wide, 
And  to  the  inmost  chamber  of  thy  breast 

Take  home  the  heavenly  guest ! 
He  for  the  famished  shall  a  feast  provide — 
And  thou  shalt  taste  the  bread  of  life,  and  so? 
The  Lord  of  angels  come  to  sup  with  thee. 

Belovi'd — who  for  us  with  care  hast  sought — 
Say,  shall  we  hear  thy  voice,  and  let  thee  wait 

All  night  before  the  gate  — 

W7et  with  the  dews — nor  greet  thee  as  we  ought  1 
Oh,  strike  the  fetters  from  the  hand  of  pride, 
And,  that  we  perish  not,  with  us,  O  Lord,  abide  ! 


THE  PERSECUTED. 


Oh  angel!  tl 


be  threefold  bliss  in  lieaven, 
ilark  earth  hast  inner,  ibrgive 


IT  was  a  bitter  pain 
That  pierced  her  gentle  heart; 
For  barbed  bv  malice  was  the  dart, 
And  sped  with  treachery's  deadliest  art, 

The  shaft  ne'er  sped  in  vain. 
That  trusting  heart,  so  true, 
(For  guile  it  never  knew  !) 
The  tender  heart,  that  ever  clung 
Where  its  wild  wreath  of  love  was  flung — 
Tue  proud,  high  heart,  that  could  have  borne 
Ail,  save  that  false,  unrighteous  scorn — 
It  writhed  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  that  strange,  cruel  wrong  : 
Yet  not — not  then  it  broke — 

For  brave  it  was  and  strong  ! 
'T  was  like  the  startled  dove, 

Scared  from  her  woody  nest — 
Her  sheltered  home  of  love, 

Deep  in  the  mountain's  breast  : 
When  first  she  mounts,  the  caverns  ring 
To  the  wild  flapping  of  her  wing; 
But  once  aloft,  she  cleaves  the  light, 
And  floats  in  calm,  unruffled  flight. 
Thus  struggling  o'er  the  wo  to  rise, 
The  stricken,  heart-distempered  flies — 
Thus  soars  at  last,  its  pain  and  peril  o'er, 
Serene  in  tranquil  pride,  to  fear  the  shaft  no  more 


ELIZABETH    F.  ELLET. 


205 


A  DIRGE.* 

HE  is  gone  !  Though  mournfully 
Comes  the  deep,  heart-heaved  sigh, 

Though  your  tears  do  fall  like  rain, 
Though  no  outward  sign  could  show 
All  the  bosom's  wordless  wo — 

All  is  in  vain  : 

He,  for  whom  ye,  stricken,  mourn, 
He,  the  lost  one,  shall  return 

Never  again  ! 

To  the  grave  in  silence  down, 

To  the  sullen,  rayless  gloom 

In  the  chambers  of  the  tomb, 

He  now  is  gone  ! 
With  his  trustful,  generous  truth, 
In  his  guileless,  joyous  youth — 

In  his  gentle  constancy, 

In  his  young  heart's  purity  ; 
Wearing  life's  wreath  blooming,  bright, 
That  had  known  no  touch  of  blight ; 

With  the  genius  God  had  given, 

In  the  very  smile  of  Heaven ; 
Smiling  all  around,  above  him, 
Knowing  none  who  did  not  love  him — 
He  hath  passed  away  ! 

Ye  who  strove  his  flight  to  stay, 
Well  ye  know  that  he  you  mourn 

Never  caused  your  hearts  a  pain, 
Till  he  left  you,  to  return 
Never  again  ! 

Pass  with  measured  pace  and  slow, 
Hide  the  faces  pale  with  wo ; 
Solemn  music,  sad  and  low, 

Fill  the  hallowed  aisle  ! 
Let  the  the  darkly-folded  pall 
Like  a  shadow  o'er  him  fall — 

Him — your  joy  e'erwhile  ; 
Let  the  slowly  sounding  bell 
Peal  its  deep-voiced,  warning  knell : 
To  the  earth,  with  words  of  trust, 
Then  commit  him — dust  to  dust ! 
Weep  now  for  the  lonely  morrow, 

For  the  hearth  light  cold — 
In  your  dark  and  silent  sorrow, 

Hearts  with  grief  grown  old  : 
Ye  have  trod  the  vintage  dread, 

Till  no  purple  drops  remain  ; 
Till  no  more  its  wine  is  shed 

Ye  have  drained  the  cup  of  pain. 
And  ye  know,  as  years  go  on, 
And  are  numbered  one  by  one, 
This  same  grief  shall  have  its  rest 
In  the  worn  and  wounded  breast ; 

Ye  shall  look  and  long  in  vain, 
Following  still  in  thought  the  track 
He  has  passed,  who  will  come  back 
Never  again  ! 

Friends  of  youth,  too,  he  left, 

When  he  departed  : 
They  are  weeping  now,  bereft — 

They,  the  true  hearted. 

*  In  style  and  measure,  this  is  an  imitation  of  a  poem  by 
an  English  author,  entitled  The  Flight  of  Youth. 


Desolate  is  now  the  place 
Where  so  late  they  saw  his  face, 
And  a  darkness  seems  to  brood 
On  the  sudden  solitude. 
Soon  the  places  that  of  yore 
Knew,  shall  know  the  lost  no  more ; 
Soon  forgotten  he  shall  be, 

He  who  all  so  happy  made 
With  his  smile  so  light  and  free, 

Bringing  sunshine  to  the  shade. 
Ay,  between  those  hearts  and  him 
Lies  a  gulf  so  dark  and  dim, 
Eyes  of  flesh  look  not  upon 

That  strange  distant  shore, 
Whither  the  lost  friend  is  gone 

To  return  no  more  ! 

Alas  !  'tis  even  so  : 
Yet  from  that  unknown  land, 
That  house  not  made  with  mortal  hand, 
Can  not  the  parted  soul  command 
Some  balm  for  earthly  wo  1 

Blessed  the  dead,  the  Spirit  saith, 

Who  life's  beguiling  path  have  trod 
Obedient  to  the  law  of  faith, 

With  heart  still  fixed  on  God. 
Eye  hath  not  seen  that  world  above ; 
Ear  hath  not  heard  that  hymn  of  love : 
Oh,  if  but  once  were  rent  away 
The  veil  which  hides  that  heavenly  day, 
On  this  cold  earth  we  would  not  stay  ! 
Heard  we  the  harpings  of  that  sphere, 
We  would  not  linger  here  ! 
Yea,  we  would  spurn  this  darksome  earth, 

And  stretch  our  eager  wings,  and  fly 
To  claim  our  heritage  by  birth — 

Heaven  and  Eternity  ! 
Nor  marvel — in  that  glorious  land, 
Who  taste  the  joys  at  God's  right  hand, 

Where  love  divine  doth  reign — . 
Who  Heaven's  own  praises  learn — 
To  this  sad  earth  return 
Never  again  ! 


THE  BURIAL. 

WE  laid  her  in  the  hallowed  place 

Beside  the  solemn  deep, 
Where  the  old  woods  by  Greenwood's  shorp 

Keep  watch  o'er  those  who  sleep : 

We  laid  her  there — the  young  and  fair, 

The  guileless,  cherished  one — 
As  if  a  part  of  life  itself 

With  her  we  loved  were  gone. 

Like  to  the  flowers  she  lived  and  bloomed, 

As  bright  and  pure  as  they ; 
And  like  a  flower  the  blight  had  touched, 

She  early  passed  away. 

Oh,  none  might  know  her  but  to  love, 

Nor  name  her  but  to  praise, 
Who  only  love  for  others  knew 

Through  life's  brief  vernal  days 


JULIA   H.    SCOTT. 


(Born  1809-Died  1842). 


THE  late  Mrs.  Mayo  describes  the  life  of 
Mrs.  SCOTT  as  having  been  "commenced  in 
Dne  of  the  quietest  mountain  valleys,  and, 
with  one  or  two  brief  episodes  only,  matured 
and  finished  not  a  dozen  miles  from  where  it 
was  begun."  In  such  a  career  there  could 
have  been  little  to  interest  the  public,  and 
ner  friend  appropriately  confided  the  me 
moir  prefixed  to  her  poems  as  much  as  pos 
sible  to  the  growth  and  product  of  her  mind. 
Mrs.  Scott's  maiden  name  was  JULIA  H.  KIN- 
NET,  and  she  was  born  on  the  fourth  of  No 
vember,  1809,  in  the  beautiful  valley  of  She- 
shequin,  in  northern  Pennsylvania.  Her  pa 
rents  were  in  humble  circumstances,  and  as 
the  eldest  of  a  large  family  she  seems  to  have 
lived  the  patient  Griselda,  beautifully  fulfil 
ling  all  the  duties  of  her  condition,  while  she 
availed  herself  of  every  opportunity  to  en 
large  her  knowledge  and  improve  her  tastes. 
She  wrote  verses  with  some  point  and  har 
mony  when  but  twelve  years  of  age,  and 
when  sixteen  or  seventeen  began  to  publish 


!  in  a  village  newspaper  essays  and  poems  that 
evinced  a  fine  fancy  and  earnest  feeling.  She 
afterward  wrote  for  The  Casket,  a  monthly 
magazine  published  in  Philadelphia,  for  The 
New-Yorker,  and  for  the  Universalist  reli 
gious  journals.  In  May,  1835,  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Dr.  David  L.  Scott,  of  Towanda,  the 
principal  village  of  the  county,  which  from 
this  period  became  her  home.  In  1838  she 
visited  Boston,  and  she  made  some  other  ex 
cursions  for  the  improvement  of  her  health, 
but  consumption  had  wasted  the  singularly 
fine  person  and  blanched  the  beautiful  face 
which  I  remember  to  have  seen  in  their  me 
ridian,  and  in  the  last  year  of  her  life  she  had 
no  hope  of  restoration.  She  died  at  Towan 
da  on  the  fifth  of  March,  1842. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Scott,  with  a  memoir 
by  Miss  S.  C.  Edgarton,  (afterward  Mrs. 
Mayo,)  were  published  in  Boston,  in  1843. 
The  volume  contains  an  excellent  portrait 
of  her  by  S.  A.  Mount,  and  several  commem 
orative  poems  by  her  friends. 


THE   TWO  GRAVES. 

THEY  sweetly  slumber,  side  by  side, 
Upon  the  green  and  pleasant  hill 

Where  the  young  morning's  sunny  title 
First  wakes  the  shadows,  dark  and  still, 

And  where  gray  twilight's  breeze  goes  by 

Laden  with  woodland  melody, 

And  Heaven's  own  tireless  watchmen  keep 

A  vigil  o'er  their  slumbers  deep. 

They  sleep  together — but  their  graves 
Are  marked  by  no  sepulchral  stone ; 

Above  their  heads  no  willow  waves, 

No  cypress  shade  is  o'er  them  thrown:    • 

The  only  record  of  their  deeds 

Is  that  where  silent  Memory  leads, 

Their  only  monument  of  fame 

Is  found  in  each  belovi  d  name. 

Oh.  theirs  was  not  the  course  which  seals 

The  iavor  of  a  fickle  world, 
They  did  not  raise  the  warring  steel, 

Their  hands  no  bloody  flag  unfurled , 
They  came  not  with  a  cup  of  wrath, 
To  drench  with  gall  life's  thorny  path, 
But,  day  and  night,  they  strove  to  win, 
Uy  love,  the  palsied  soiii  iroin  sin. 


Like  two  bright  stars  at  eventide, 

They  shone  with  undiminished  ray ; 
And!  though  clouds  gathered  far  and  wide, 

Still  held  they  on  their  upward'  way, 
And  still  unheeded  swept  them  by 
The  threatening!  of  this  lower  sky — 
For  they  had  built  upon  the  Rock, 
Defying  tide  and  tempest's  shock. 

To  them  the  vanities  of  life 

Were  but  as  bubbles  of  the  sea : 

They  shunned  the  boisterous  swell  of  strife ; 
From  Pride's  low  thrall  their  souls  were 
free. 

They  only  sought  by  Christ  to  show 

The  Father's  love  for  all  below  ; 

They 'only  strove  through  Christ  to  raise 

The  wandering  mind  from  error's  maze. 

But  now  they  sleep — and  oh,  may  ne'er 
One  careless  footstep  press  the  sod 

Where  moulder  those  we  held  so  dear, 
The  friends  of  man,  the  friends  of  God ! 

And  let  alone  warm  feeling  twine 

An  offering  at  their  lowly  shrine ; 

While  all  who  knew  them  humbly  try 

Like  them  to  live,  like  them  to  die. 
906 


JULIA    H.   SCOTT. 


207 


MY  CHILD. 

"  There  is  one  who  has  loved  me  debarred  from  the  day." 

THE  foot  of  Spring  is  on  yon  blue-topped  mountain, 

Leaving  its  green  prints 'neath  each  spreading  tree ; 
Her  voice  is  heard  beside  the  swelling  fountain, 

Giving  sweet  tones  to  its  wild  melody. 
From  the  warm  south  she  brings  unnumbered  roses, 

To  greet  with  smiles  the  eye  of  grief  and  care : 
Her  balmy  breath  on  the  worn  hrow  reposes, 

And  her  rich  gifts  are  scattered  everywhere ; — 
I  heed  them  not,  my  child. 

In  the  low  vale  the  snow-white  daisy  springeth, 

The  golden  dandelion  by  its  side ; 
The  eglantine  a  dewy  fragrance  flingeth 

To  the  soft  breeze  that  wanders  far  and  wide. 
The  hyacinth  and  polyanthus  render, 

From  their  deep  hearts,  an  offering  of  love ; 
And  fresh  May-pinks  and  half-blown  lilacs  tender 

Their  grateful  homage  to  the  skies  above ; — 
I  heed  them  not,  my  child. 

In  the  clear  brook  are  springing  water-cresses, 

And  pale  green  rushes,  and  fair,  nameless  flowers; 
While  o'er  them  dip  the  willow's  verdant  tresses, 

Dimpling  the  surface  with  their  mimic  showers. 
The  honeysuckle  stealthily  is  creeping 

Round  the  low  porch  and  mossy  cottage-eaves ; 
Oh  !  Spring  hath  fairy  treasures  in  her  keeping, 

And  lovely  are  the  landscapes  that  she  weaves  ; — 
'T  is  naught  to  me,  my  child. 

Down  the  green  lane  come  peals  of  heartfelt  laughter; 

The  school  hath  sent  its  eldest  inmates  forth ; 
And  now  a  smaller  band  comes  dancing  after, 

Filling  the  air  with  shouts  of  infant  mirth. 
At  the  rude  gate  the  anxious  dame  is  bending, 

To  clasp  her  rosy  darlings  to  her  breast ; 
Joy,  pride,  and  hope,  are  in  her  bosom  blending ; 

Ah  !  peace  with  her  is  no  unusual  guest ; — 
Not  so  with  me,  my  child. 

All  the  day  long  I  listen  to  the  singing 

Of  the  gay  birds  and  winds  among  the  trees ; 
But  a  sad  under-strain  is  ever  ringing 

A  tale  of  death  and  its  dread  mysteries. 
Nature  to  me  the  letter  is,  that  killeth — 

The  spirit  of  her  charms  has  passed  away ; 
A  fount  of  bliss  no  more  my  bosom  filleth — 

Slumbers  its  idol  in  unconscious  clay  ; — 

Thou'rt  in  t\\e  grave,  my  child. 

For  thy  glad  voice  my  spirit  inly  pineth, 

I  languish  for  thy  blue  eyes'  holy  light  : 
Vainly  for  me  the  glorious  sunbeam  shineth ; 

Vainly  the  blessed  stars  come  forth  at  night. 
I  walk  in  darkness,  with  the  tomb  before  me, 

Longing  to  lay  my  dust  beside  thine  own; 
Oh  cast  the  mantle  of  thy  presence  o'er  me ! 

Beloved,  leave  me  not  so  deeply  lone  ; — 

Come  back  to  me,  my  child ! 

Upon  that  breast  of  pitying  love  thou  leanest, 
Which  oft  on  earth  did  pillow  such  as  thou, 

Nor  turned  away  petitioner  the  meanest : 
Pray  to  Him,  sinless — he  will  hear  thce  now. 


Plead  for  thy  weak  and  broken-hearted  mother ; 

Pray  that  thy  voice  may  whisper  words  of  peace : 
Her  ear  is  deaf,  and  can  discern  no  other ; 

Speak,  and  her  bitter  sorrowings  shall  cease ; — 
Come  back  to  me,  my  child ! 

Come  but  in  dreams — let  me  once  more  behold  thee, 

As  in  thy  hours  of  buoyancy  and  glee, 
And  one  brief  moment  in  my  arms  enfold  thee — 

Beloved,  I  will  not  ask  thy  stay  with  me.  ' 
Leave  but  the  impress  of  thy  dovelike  beauty, 

Which  Memory  strives  so  vainly  to  recall, 
And  I  will  onward  in  the  path  of  duty, 

Restraining  tears  that  ever  fain  would  fall ; — 

Come  but  in  dreams,  my  child ! 


INVOCATION  TO  POETRY. 

1 1  said  to  the  spirit  of  poesy,  '  Come  back;  thou  art  my  comforter.' 

COME  back,  come  back,  sweet  spirit, 

I  miss  thee  in  my  dreams ; 
I  miss  thee  in  the  laughing  bowers 

And  by  the  gushing  streams. 
The  sunshine  hath  no  gladness, 

The  harp  no  joyous  tone — 
Oh,  darkly  glide  the  moments  by 

Since  thy  soft  light  has  flown. 

Come  back,  come  back,  sweet  spirit, 

As  in  the  glorious  past, 
When  the  halo  of  a  brighter  world 

Was  round  my  being  cast ; 
When  midnight  had  no  darkness, 

When  sorrow  smiled  through  tears, 
And  life's  blue  sky  seemed  bowed  in  love, 

To  bless  the  coming  years. 

Come  back,  come  back,  sweet  spirit, 

Like  the  glowing  flowers  of  spring, 
Ere  Time  hath  snatched  the  last  pure  wreath 

From  Fancy's  glittering  wing ; 
Ere  the  heart's  increasing  shadows 

Refuse  to  pass  away, 
And  the  silver  cords  wax  thin  which  bind 

To  heaven  the  weary  clay. 

Come  back,  thou  art  my  comforter : 

What  is  the  world  to  me  ] 
Its  cares  that  live,  its  hopes  that  die, 

Its  heartless  revelry  ? 
Mine,  mine,  oh  blessed  spirit ! 

The  inspiring  draught-be  mine, 
Though  words  may  ne'er  reveal  how  ueep 

My  worship  at  thy  shrine. 

Come  back,  thou  holy  spirit, 

By  the  b!iss  thou  mayst  impart, 
Or  by  the  pain  thine  absence  gives 

A  deeply  stricken  heart. 
Come  back,  as  comes  the  sunshine 

Upon  the  sobbing  sea, 
And  every  roaming  thought  shall  vow 

Allegiance  to  thee. 


ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIES. 


MRS.  DINNIES  is  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Justice 
Shacklefurd,  of  South  Carolina,  and  was  edu 
cated  at  a  school  in  Charleston  conducted  by 
the  daughters  of  Dr.  Ramsay,  the  historian. 
]n  1830  she  was  married  to  Mr.  John  C.  Din- 
nies,  then  of  St.  Louis,  where  she  resided 
until  the  recent  removal  of  Mr.  Dinnies  to 
New  Orleans.  Mrs.  Hale,  in  her  Ladies' 
Wreath,  states  that  she  became  engaged  in 
a  literary  correspondence  with  Mr.  Dinnies 
more  than  four  years  before  their  union,  and 
that  they  never  met  until  one  week  before 
their  marriage.  "  The  contract  was  made 
solely  from  sympathy  and  congeniality  of 


mind  and  taste ;  and  that  in  their  estimate 
of  each  other  they  were  not  disappointed, 
may  be  inferred  from  the  tone  of  her  songs." 
The  greater  part  of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Din 
nies  appeared  originally  in  various  maga 
zines  under  the  signature  of  "Moina."  In 
1846  she  published  in  a  richly  illustrated  vol 
ume  entitled  The  Floral  Year,  one  hundred 
compositions,  arranged  in  twelve  groups,  to 
illustrate  that  number  of  bouquets,  gathered 
in  the  different  months.  Her  pieces  celebra 
ting  the  domestic  affections  are  marked  by 
unusual  grace  and  tenderness,  and  some  of 
them  are  worthy  of  the  most  elegant  poets. 


WEDDED  LOVE. 

COME,  rouse  thee,  dearest! — 'tis  not  well 

To  let  the  spirit  brood 
Thus  darkly  o'er  the  cares  that  swell 

Life's  current  to  a  flood. 
As  bro  >ks,  and  torrents,  rivers,  all 
Increase  the  gulf  in  which  they  fall, 
Such  thoughts,  by  gathering  up  the  rills 
Of  lesser  griefs,  spread  real  ills, 
And  with  their  gloomy  shades  conceal 
The  landmarks  Hope  would  else  reveal. 

Come,  rouse  thee,  now :  I  know  thy  mind, 
And  would  its  strength  awaken ; 

Proud,  gifted,  noble,  ardent,  kind — 

Strange  thou  shouldst  be  thus  shaken ! 

But  rouse  afresh  each  energy, 

And  be  what  Heaven  intended  thee ; 

Throw  from  thy  thoughts  this  wearying  weight, 

And  prove  thy  spirit  firmly  great: 

I  would  not  see  thee  bend  below 

The  angry  storms  of  earthly  wo. 

Full  well  I  know  the  generous  soul 
Which  warms  thee  into  life — 
Each  spring  which  can  its  powers  control, 

Familiar  to  thy  wife  ; 
For  deemst  thou  she  had  stooped  to  bind 
Her  fate  unto  a  common  mind! 
The  eagle-like  ambition,  nursed 
From  childhood  in  her  heart,  had  first 
Consumed,  with  its  Promethean  flame, 
The  shrine — then  sunk  her  soul  to  shame. 

Then  rouse  thee,  dearest,  from  the  dream 

That  fetters  now  thy  powers  : 
Shake  off  this  gloom — Hope  sheds  a  beam 

To  gild  eacli  cloud  which  lowers ; 
And  though  at  present  seems  so  far 
The  wished-for  goal — a  guiding  star, 
With  peaceful  ray,  would  light  thee  on, 


Until  its  utmost  bounds  be  won : 
That  quenchless  ray  thou 'It  ever  prove 
In  fond,  undying  wedded  love. 


THE  WIFE. 

I  COULD  have  stemmed  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear ; 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  «  alone." 
I  Could — I  think  I  could  have  brooked, 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  looked 

With  less  of  love  than  now ; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own 
To  win  thee  back,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  "  alone." 

But  thus  to  see,  from  day  to  day, 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away, 

Unnumbered,  slowly,  meek; 
To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel,  I  '11  be  "  alone  ;" 
To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 

And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
As,  filled  with  heavenward  trust,  they  say 

"Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer;" 
Nay,  dearest,  'tis  too  much — this  heart 

Must  break  when  thou  art  gono ; 
It  must  not  be  ;  we  may  not  part  : 

I  could  not  live  "  alone  '•" 


ANNA    PEYRE    DINNIES. 


209 


EMBLEMS. 

Finsr  take  a  feather,  and  lay  it  upon 

The  stream  that  is  rippling  by  : 
With  the  current,  behold,  in  a  moment  'tis  gone, 

Unimpressive  and  light  as  a  sigh ; 
Then  take  thee  a  clear  and  precious  stone. 

And  on  the  same  stream  place  it : 
Oh  !  mark  how  the  water  on  which  it  is  thrown, 

In  its  bosom  will  quickly  encase  it ! 
Or  take  a  crystal,  or  stainless  glass ; 

With  a  crayon  upon  it  then  trace 
A  sentence,  or  line,  and  watch  how  'twill  pass — 

A  breath  will  its  beauty  efface; 
Then  take  a  diamond,  as  pure  as  'tis  bright, 

And  write  some  modest  token  : 
Mid  heat  or  cold,  in  shade,  in  light, 

'Twill  last  till  the  crystal  is  broken. 
And  thus  with  the  tablet  of  woman's  pure  heart, 

WThen  the  vain  and  the  idle  may  try 
To  leave  their  impressions,  they  swiftly  depart, 

Like  the  feather,  the  scroll,  and  the  sigh ; 
But  once  be  inscribed  on  that  tablet  a  name, 

And  an  image  of  genius  and  worth, 
Through  the  changes  of  life  it  will  still  be  the  same, 

Till  that  heart  is  removed  from  the  earth. 


THE  TRUE  BALLAD  OF  THE  WANDERER. 

A  MAIDEN*  in  a  southern  bower 

Of  fragrant  vines  and  citron-trees, 
To  charm  the  pensive  twilight  hour, 

Flung  wild  her  thoughts  upon  the  breeze; 
To  Cupid's  ear  unconscious  telling 
The  fitful  dream  her  bosom  swelling, 
Till  Echo  softly  on  it  dwelling, 
Revealed  the  urchin,  bold  and  free, 
Repealing  thus  her  minstrelsy  : 
"  Away,  away  !  by  brook  and  fountain, 

Where  the  wild  deer  wanders  free, 
O'er  sloping  dale  and  swelling  mountain, 
Still  my  fancy  follows  thee ; 

Where  the  lake  its  bosom  spreading, 
Where  the  breeze  its  sweets  is  shedding, 
Where  thy  buoyant  steps  are  treading, 
There — where'er  the  spot  may  be — 
There  my  thoughts  are  following  thee ! 
"  In  the  forest's  dark  recesses, 

Where  the  fawn  may  fearless  stray ; 
In  the  cave  no  sunbeam  blesses 
With  its  first  or  parting  ray  ; 

Where  the  birds  are  blithely  singing, 
Where  the  flowers  are  gayly  springing, 
Where  the  bee  its  course  is  winging, 
There,  if  there  thou  now  mayst  be, 
Anxious  Thought  is  following  thee  ! 
"  In  the  lowly  peasant's  cot, 
Quiet  refuge  of  content ; 
In  the  sheltered,  grass-grown  spot, 
Resting,  when  with  travel  spent, 
Where  the  vine  its  tendrils  curling, 
Where  the  trees  their  boughs  are  furling, 
Where  the  streamlet  clear  is  purling, 
There,  if  there  thou  now  mayst  be, 
There  my  spirit  follows  thee  ! 


"  In  the  city's  busy  mart, 

Mingling  with  its  restless  crowd ; 
Mid  the  miracles  of  art, 

Classic  pile,  and  column  proud  , 
O'er  the  ancient  ruin  sighing, 
When  the  sun's  last  ray  is  dying, 
Or  to  fashion's  vortex  flying, 
Even  there,  if  thou  mayst  be, 
There  my  thoughts  must  follow  thee ' 

"  In  the  revel — in  the  dance — 

W'ith  the  firm,  familiar  friend — 
Or  where  Thespian  arts  entrance, 
Making  mirth  and  sadness  blend  ; 
Where  the  living  pageant  glowing, 
O'er  thy  heart  its  spell  is  throwing, 
Mimic  life  in  '•alto'  showing, 
There,  beloved,  if  thou  mayst  be, 
There,  still  there,  I  follow  thee  ! 

"  When  the  weary  day  is  over, 

And  thine  eyes  in  slumber  close, 
Still,  oh  !  still,  inconstant  rover, 
Do  I  charm  thee  to  repose ; 

With  the  shades  of  night  descending 
With  thy  guardian  spirits  blending, 
To  thy  sleep  sweet  visions  lending, 
There,  e'en  there,  true  love  may  be, 
There  and  thus  am  I  with  thee  !" 

Months  and  seasons  rolled  away, 

And  the  maiden's  cheek  was  pale ; 
When,  as  bloomed  the  buds  of  May, 
Cupid  thus  resumed  the  tale : 
"  Over  land  and  sea  returning, 
Wealth,  and  power,  and  beauty  spurning. 
Love  within  his  true  heart  burning, 
Comes  the  wanderer  wild  and  free, 
Faithful  maiden,  back  to  thee  !" 


LOVE'S  MESSENGERS. 

YE  little  Stars,  that  twinkle  high 

In  the  dark  vault  of  heaven, 
Like  spangles  on  the  deep  blue  sky, 
Perhaps  to  you  'tis  given 

To  shed  your  lucid  radiance  now 
Upon  my  absent  loved  one's  brow 

Ye  fleecy  Clouds,  that  swiftly  glide 

O'er  Earth's  oft-darkened  way, 
Floating  along  in  grace  and  pride, 
Perhaps  your  shadows  stray 

E'en  now  across  the  starry  light 
That  guides  my  wanderer  forth  to-night 

Ye  balmy  Breezes  sweeping  by, 

And  shedding  freshness  round, 
Ye,  too,  may  haply  as  ye  fly, 

With  health  and  fragrance  crowned, 

Linger  a  moment,  soft  and  light, 

To  sport  amid  his  tresses  bright 7 

Then  Stars,  and  Clouds,  and  Breezes,  bear 

My  heart's  best  wish  to  him ; 
And  say  the  feelings  glowing  there 
Nor  time  nor  change  can  dim  ; 
That  be  success  or  grief  his  share, 
My  love  still  brightening  shall  appear. 


ANN    S.    STEPHENS. 


(Born  1813). 


MRS.  STEPHENS  is  well  known  as  one  of 
tne  most  spirited  and  popular  of  our  maga- 
zinists.  She  was  born  in  Derby,  Connecti 
cut,  in  1811,  and  in  1831  was  married  to  Mr. 
Edward  Stephens,  of  Portland,  who  in  1835 
commenced  the  publication  of  the  Portland 
Magazine,  of  which  she  was  two  years  the 
editress.  In  1837  she  removed  to  New  York, 
and  she  has  since  been  a  writer  for  The  La 


dies'  Companion,  Graham's  Magazine,  The 
Ladies'  National  Magazine.  The  Columbian 
Magazine,  and  other  periodicals  of  the  same 
character.  Her  tales  and  sketches  would 
probably  fill  a  dozen  common  duodecimo  vol 
umes.  Her  longest  poem,  entitled  The  Po 
lish  Boy,  was  first  published  in  1839.  There 
has  been  no  collectiDn  either  of  her  poems  or 
of  her  prose  writings. 


THE  OLD  APPLE-TREE. 

I  AM  thinking  of  the  homestead, 

With  its  low  and  sloping  roof, 
And  the  maple  boughs  that  shadowed  it 

With  a  green  and  leafy  woof; 
I  am  thinking  of  the  lilac-trees, 

That  shook  their  purple  plumes, 
And,  when  the  sash  was  open, 

Shed  fragrance  through  the  rooms. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  rivulet, 

With  its  cool  and  silvery  flow, 
Of  the  old  gray  rock  that  shadowed  it, 

And  the  peppermint  below. 
I  am  not  sad  nor  sorrowful, 

But  memories  will  come; 
So  leave  me  to  my  solitude, 

And  let  me  think  of  home. 
There  was  not  around  my  birthplace 

A  thicket  or  a  flower, 
But  childish  game  or  friendly  face 

Has  given  it  a  power 
To  haunt  me  in  my  after-life, 

And  be  with  me  again — 
A  sweet  and  pleasant  memory 

Of  mingled  joy  and  pain. 
But  the  old  and  knotted  apple-tree, 

That  stood  beneath  the  hill, 
My  heart  can  never  turn  to  it 

But  with  a  pleasant  thrill. 
Oh,  what  a  dreamy  life  I  led 

Beneath  its  old  green  shade, 
Whore  the  daisies  and  the  butter-cups 

A  pleasant  carpet  made  ! 
'Twas  a  rough  old  tree  in  spring-time, 

When,  with  a  blustering  sound, 
The  wind  came  hoarsely  sweeping 

Along  the  frosty  ground. 
15 ut.  when  there  rose  a  rivalry 

'Tween  clouds  and  pleasant  weather, 
Till  the  sunshine  anil  the  raindrops 

Came  laughing  down  together ; 


That  patriarch  old  apple-tree 

Enjoyed  the  lovely  strife; 
The  sap  sprang  lightly  through  its  veins, 

And  circled  into  life: 
A  cloud  of  pale  and  tender  buds 

Burst  o'er  each  rugged  bough; 
And  amid  the  starting  verdure 

The  robins  made  their  vow. 

That  tree  was  very  beautiful 

When  all  its  leaves  were  green, 
And  rosy  buds  lay  opening 

Amid  their  tender  sheen  : 
When  the  bright,  translucent  dewdrops 

Shed  blossoms  as  they  fell, 
And  melted  in  their  fragrance 

Like  music  in  a  shell. 

It  was  greenest  in  the  summer-time, 

When  cheerful  sunlight  wove 
Amid  its  thrifty  leafiness 

A  warm  and  glowing  love ; 
When  swelling  fruit  blushed  ruddily 

To  Summer's  balmy  breath, 
And  the  laden  boughs  drooped  heavily 

To  the  greensward  underneath. 

'Twas  brightest  in  a  rainy  day, 

When  all  the  purple  west 
Was  piled  with  fleecy  storm-clouds 

That  never  seemed  at  rest ; 
When  a  cool  and  lulling  melody 

Fell  from  the  dripping  eaves, 
And  soft,  warm  drops  came  pattering 

Upon  the  restless  leaves. 

But  oh,  the  scene  was  glorious 

When  clouds  were  lightly  riven, 
Arid  there  above  my  valley  home 

Came  out  the  bow  of  heaven — 
And  in  its  fitful  brilliancy 

Hung  quivering  on  high, 
Like  a  jewelled  arch  of  paradise 

Reflected  through  the  sky. 
210 


A.   R.   ST.   JOHN. 


211 


I  am  thinking  of  the  footpath 

My  constant  visits  made, 
Between  the  dear  old  homestead 

And  that  leafy  apple  shade ; 
Where  the  flow  of  distant  waters 

Came  with  a  tinkling  sound, 
Like  the  revels  of  a  fairy  band, 

Beneath  the  fragrant  ground. 

I  haunted  it  at  eventide, 

And  dreamily  would  lie  * 
And  watch  the  crimson  twilight 

Come  stealing  o'er  the  sky  ; 
'Twas  sweet  to  see  its  dying  gold 

Wake  up  the  dusky  leaves — 
To  hear  the  swallows  twittering 

Beneath  the  distant  eaves. 


I  have  listened  to  the  music — 

A  low,  sweet  minstrelsy, 
Breathed  by  a  lonely  night-bird 

That  haunted  that  old  tree — 
Till  my  heart  has  swelled  with  feelings 

For  which  it  had  no  name — 
A  yearning  love  of  poesy, 

A  thirsting  after  fame. 

I  kave  gazed  up  through  the  foliage 

With  dim  and  tearful  eyes, 
And  with  a  holy  reverence 

Dwelt  on  the  changing  skies, 
Till  the  burning  stars  were  peopled 

With  forms  of  spirit  birth, 
And  I  've  almost  heard  their  harp-strings 

Reverberate  on  earth. 


A.    R.    ST.    JOHN. 


MRS.  ST.  JOHN,  formerly  Miss  MUNROE, 
was  bom  in  the  vicinity  of  Boston,  and  in 
1826  was  married  to  Mr.  J.  R.  St.  John.  She 
has  for  several  years  resided  in  Brooklyn, 


New  York.  She  is  said  to  be  a  voluminous 
writer,  and  she  has  been  a  contributor,  under 
her  name,  to  the  Democratic  Review  and  oth 
er  literary  miscellanies. 


MEDUSA. 

FROM  AN  ANTIQUE  GEM. 

FATED  sister  of  the  three ! 
Mortal,  though  a  deity  ; 
Superhuman  beauty  thine, 
Demon  goddess,  power  divine  ! 
Thou  a  mortal  life  didst  share, 
Thou  a  human  death  didst  bear; 
Yet  thy  soul  supremely  free 
Shrank  not  from  its  destiny  : 
And  the  life-drops  from  thy  head, 
On  Libyan  sands  which  Perseus  shed, 
Sprang,  a  scourging  race,  from  thee, 
Fell  types  of  artful  mystery. 
Thou  wast  the  victim  of  dire  rage, 
Minerva's  vengeance  to  assuage, 
And  thy  locks  like  molten  gold, 
Sheltering  love  in  every  fold, 
Transformed  into  the  serpent's  lair 
Tnat  writhe  and  hiss  in  thy  despair. 

Fatal  beauty,  thou  dost  seem 
The  phantom  of  some  fearful  dream  ; 
Extremes  of  horror  and  of  love 
Alternate  o'er  our  senses  move, 
As,  wrapt  and  spell-bound,  we  survey 
The  fearful  coils  which  round  thee  play, 
And  mark  thy  mild,  enduring  smile, 
Lit  by  no  mortal  fire  the  while. 

Formed  to  attract  all  eyes  to  thee, 
And  yet  their  withering  light  to  be, 
With  some  mysterious,  powerful  charm 


That  can  the  sternest  will  disarm, 

The  color  from  the  warm  cheek  steal, 

The  life-blood  in  the  heart  congeal, 

Or  petrify  with  wild  dismay 

The  boldest  gazer's  human  clay — 

This  is  a  terrible  ministry 

For  one  with  such  a  destiny. 

Oh  couldst  thou  unto  mortals  give 
Thy  strength  to  suffer,  grace  to  live, 
Teach  them  with  ever-heavenward  eye 
The  direst  chances  to  defy, 
Wrapt  in  the  grandeur  of  a  soul 
To  meet  the  finite  and  control — 
This  thy  dread  mission  would  unseal — 
This  thy  mysterious  self  reveal. 

In  vain  we  wonder  what  thou  art — • 
Whether  thou  hast  a  human  heart ; 
Whether  thou  feelest  scorpion  stings 
From  shadowy  troops  Repentance  brings 
In  never  still  or  slumbering  bands 
Upon  the  spirit's  arid  sands; 
Whether  Regret's  more  gentle  forms, 
Long  brooding,  come  at  length  in  storms; 
Whether  the  taunts  of  flying  Hope 
Doom  thee  without  the  gates  to  grope — 
We  know  not — we  shall  never  know — 
Night  hides  in  gloom  thy  cause  of  wo. 
But  if  no  voice  of  thine  complains 
While  braving  all  such  human  pains, 
Just  is  thy  claim  with  gods  to  be — 
Their  aegis  and  dread  mystery. 


SARAH    LOUISA    P.    SMITH. 


(Born  1811— Died  1842). 


Miss  HICKMAN,  afterward  Mrs.  SMITH,  was 
born  in  Detroit  on  the  thirtieth  of  June,  1811, 
at  which  time  her  grandfather,  Major-Gen- 
eral  Hull  —  whose  patriotism  and  misfortunes 
are  at  leng:h  beginning  to  be  justly  appreci 
ated  by  the  people  —  was  governor  of  Michi 
gan.  While  a  child  she  accompanied  her 
nuther  to  the  home  of  her  funily,  in  New 
ton,  Massachusetts,  where  she  was  carefully 
educa  ed.  She  cc^uired  knowledge  with  ex 
traordinary  facility,  and  when  but  thirteen 
year>  of  age  her  compositions  were  compared 
to  those  of  Kirke  White  and  others  whose 
e..rly  maturity  is  the  subject  of  some  of  the 
most  interesting  chapters  in  literary  history. 
1  i  her  eighteenth  year  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  Samuel  Jenks  Smith,  then  editor  of  a 
periidical  in  Providence,  where  he  soon  af- 
t.T  published  a  collection  of  her  poems,  in  a 
volume  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  duodecimo 


pages,  many  of  the  pieces  in  which  were 
written  as  it  was  passing  through  the  press. 
In  1829  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  removed  to  Cin 
cinnati,  where  they  resided  nearly  two  years, 
and  here  she  continued  to  write,  with  a  sort 
of  improvisatorial  ease,  but  with  increasing 
elegance  and  a  constantly  deepening  tone  of 
reflection,  until  her  health  was  too  much  de 
cayed,  and  then  she  returned  to  New  York, 
where,  on  the  twelfth  of  February,  1832,  she 
died,  in  the  twenty-first  year  of  her  age.  Her 
husband  was  for  several  years  connected  with 
the  press  in  this  city,  and  died  while  on  a 
voyage  to  Europe  in  1842. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Smith  are  interesting 
chiefly  as  the  productions  of  a  very  youthful 
author.  She  wrote  with  grace  and  spright- 
liness,  and  sometimes  with  feeling ;  but  there 
is  little  in  her  writings  that  would  survive 
its  connexion  with  her  history. 


THE  HUMA* 

FLY  on  !  nor  touch  thy  wing,  bright  bird, 

Too  near  our  shaded  earth, 
Or  the  warbling,  now  so  sweetly  heard, 

May  lose  its  note  of  mirth. 
Fly  on — nor  seek  a  place  of  rest 

In  the  home  of  "care-worn  things;" 
'T  would  dim  the  light  of  thy  shining  crest 

And  thy  brightly  burnished  wings, 
To  dip  them  where  the  waters  glide 
That  flow  from  a  troubled  earthly  tide. 

The  fields  of  upper  air  are  thine, 

Thy  place  where  stars  shine  free ; 
I  would  thy  home,  bright  one,  were  mine, 

Ab  >ve  life's  stormy  sea  ! 
[  would  never  wander,  bird,  like  thee, 

So  near  this  place  again, 
With  wing  and  spirit  once  light  and  free — 

They  should  wear  no  more  the  chain 
With  which  thev  are  bound  and  fettered  here, 
For  ever  struggling  for  skies  more  clear. 

There  are  many  things  like  thee,  bright  bird, 

Hopes  as  thy  plumage  gay  ; 
Our  air  is  with  them  for  ever  stirred, 

But  still  in  air  they  stay. 
And  happiness,  like  thee,  fair  one, 


*  A  bird  peculiar  to  the  Ea=t.     Tt  i*  supposed  to  fly  con 
stantly  in  the  air,  and  never  tou  h  the  ground. 


Ts  ever  hovering  o'er, 
But  rests  in  a  land  of  brighter  sun, 

On  a  waveless,  peaceful  shore, 
And  stoops  to  lave  her  weary  wings 
Where  the  fount  of  "  living  waters"  springs. 


WHITE  ROSES. 

THEY  were  gathered  for  a  bridal : 

I  knew  it  by  their  hue — 
Fair  as  the  summer  moonlight 

Upon  the  sleeping  dew. 
From  their  fair  and  fairy  sisters 

They  were  borne,  without  a  sigh, 
For  one  remembered  evening 

To  blossom  and  to  die. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 

And  fastened  in  a  wreath  ; 
But  purer  were  the  roses 

Than  the  heart  that  lay  beneath ; 
Yet  the  beaming  eye  was  lovely, 

And  the  coral  lip  was  fair, 
And  the  gazer  looked  and  asked  not 

For  the  secret  hidden  there. 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 

Where  a  thousand  torches  glistened, 

When  the  holy  words  were  spoken, 
And  the  false  and  faithless  listened 
212 


SARAH   LOUISA   P.  SMITH. 


213 


And  answered  to  the  vow 

Which  another  heart  had  taken  : 
Yet  he  was  present  then — 

The  once  loved,  the  forsaken  ! 

They  were  gathered  for  a  bridal, 

And  now,  now  they  are  dying, 
And  young  Love  at  the  altar 

Of"  broken  faith  is  sighing. 
Their  summer  life  was  stainless, 

And  not  like  hers  who  wore  them 
They  are  faded,  and  the  farewell 

Of  beauty  lingers  o'er  them ! 


STANZAS. 

I  WOULD  not  have  thee  deem  my  heart 

Unmindful  of  those  higher  joys, 
Regardless  of  that  better  part 

Which  earthly  passion  ne'er  alloys. 
I  would  not  have  thee  think  I  live 

Within  heaven's  pure  and  blessed  light, 
Nor  feeling  nor  affection  give 

To  Him  who  makes  my  pathway  bright. 

I  would  not  chain  to  mystic  creeds 

A  spirit  fetterless  and  free ; 
The  beauteous  path  to  heaven  that  leads 

Is  dimmed  by  earthly  bigotry  : 
And  yet,  for  all  that  earth  can  give, 

And  all  it  e'er  can  take  away, 
I  would  not  have  that  spirit  rove 

One  moment  from  its  heavenward  way. 

1  would  not  that  my  heart  were  cold 

And  void  of  gratitude  to  Him 
Who  makes  those  blessings  to  unfold 

Which  by  our  waywardness  grow  dim. 
I  would  not  lose  the  cherished  trust 

Of  things  within  the  world  to  come — 
The  thoughts,  that  when  their  joys  are  dust, 

The  weary  have  a  peaceful  home. 

For  1  have  left  the  dearly  loved, 

The  home,  the  hopes  of  other  years, 
And  early  in  its  pathway  proved 

Life's  rainbow  hues  were  formed  of  tears. 
I  shall  not  meet  them  here  again, 

Those  loved,  and  lost,  and  cherished  ones, 
Bright  links  in  young  Affection's  chain, 

In  Memory's  sky  unsetting  suns. 

But  perfect  in  the  world  above, 

Through  suffering,  wo,  and  trial  here, 
Shall  glow  the  undiminished  love 

Which  clouds  and  distance  failed  to  sere  : 
But  I  have  lingered  all  too  long, 

Thy  kind  remembrance  to  engage 
And  woven  but  a  mournful  song, 

Wherewith  to  dim  thy  page. 


THE  FALL  OF  WARSAW. 

THROUGH  Warsaw  there  is  weeping, 

And  a  voice  of  sorrow  now, 
For  the  hero  who  is  sleeping 

With  death  upon  his  brow ; 
The  trumpet-tone  will  waken 
No  more  his  martial  tread, 
Nor  the  battle-ground  be  shaken 
When  his  banner  is  outspread ! 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile ; 
Sisters,  let  our  solemn  strain 
Breathe  a  blessing  o'er  the  slain. 

There 's  a  voice  of  grief  in  Warsaw— 

The  mourning  of  the  brave 
O'er  the  chieftain  who  is  gathered 

Unto  his  honored  grave  ! 
Who  now  will  face  the  foeman  ? 
Who  break  the  tyrant's  chain  1 
Their  bravest  one  lies  fallen, 
And  sleeping  with  the  slain. 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile  ; 
Sisters,  let  our  dirge  be  said 
Slowly  o'er  the  sainted  dead ! 

There 's  a  voice  of  woman  weeping, 

In  Warsaw  heard  to-night, 
And  eyes  close  not  in  sleeping, 

That  late  with  joy  were  bright ; 
No  festal  torch  is  lighted, 

No  notes  of  music  swell ; 
Their  country's  hope  was  blighted 
When  that  son  of  Freedom  fell ! 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile ; 
Sisters,  let  our  hymn  arise 
Sadly  to  the  midnight  skies ! 

And  a  voice  of  love  undying, 

From  the  tomb  of  other  years, 
Like  the  west  wind's  summer  sighing, 

It  blends  with  manhood's  tears : 
It  whispers  not  of  glory, 

Nor  fame's  unfading  youth, 
But  lingers  o'er  a  story 
Of  young  affection's  truth. 
Now  let  our  hymn 

Float  through  the  aisle, 
Faintly  and  dim, 

Where  moonbeams  smile , 
Sisters,  let  our  solemn  strain 
Breathe  a  blessing  o'er  the  slain ' 


SOPHIA    HELEN    OLIVER. 

(Born  1811). 


THIS  author  was  born  in  Lexington,  Ken 
tucky,  in  1811,  and  in  1837  was  married  to 
Dr.  J.  H.  Oliver.  The  next  year  she  removed 
to  Louisville,  whence  after  a  short  time  she 
returned  to  Lexington,  and  in  1842  she  went 


to  reside  permanently  in  Cincinnati,  in  one 
of  the  medical  colleges  of  which  city  her  hus 
band  is  a  professor.  Her  poems  are  spirited 
and  fanciful,  but  are  sometimes  imperfect  in 
rhythm  and  have  other  signs  of  carelessness. 


"I  MARK  THE   HOURS  THAT  SHINE." 

Ix  fair  Italia's  lovely  land, 

Deep  in  a  garden  bower, 
A  dial  marks  with  shadowy  hand 

Each  sun-illumined  hour; 
And  on  its  fair,  unsullied  face 

Is  carved  this  flowing  line, 
(Some  wandering  bard  has  paused  to  trace  :) 

"  1  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 
Oh  ye  who  in  a  friend's  fair  face 

Mark  the  defects  alone, 
Where  many  a  sweet  redeeming  grace 

Doth  for  each  fault  atone — 
Go,  from  the  speaking  dial  learn 

A  lesson  all  divine  — 
From  faults  that  wound  your  fancy  turn, 

And  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 
When  bending  o'er  the  glowing  page 

Traced  by  a  godlike  mind, 
Whose  burning  thoughts  from  age  to  age 

Shall  light  and  bless  mankind — 
Why  will  ye  seek  mid  gleaming  gold 

For  dross  in  every  line, 
Dark  spots  upon  the  sun  behold, 

Nor  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine  ]" 
Oh  ye  who  bask  in  Fortune's  light, 

Whose  cups  are  flowing  o'er, 
Yet  through  the  weary  day  and  night 

Still  pine  and  sigh  for  more — 
WThy  will  ye,  when  so  richly  blest, 

Ungratefully  repine. 
Why  sigh  for  joys  still  unpossessed, 

Nor  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine''  ] 
And  ye  who  toil  from  morn  till  night 

To  earn  your  scanty  bread, 
Are  there  no  blessings  rich  and  bright 

Around  your  pathway  spread  1 
The  conscience  clear,  the  cheerful  heart, 

The  trust  in  love  divine, 
All  bid  desponding  care  depart; 

And  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 
And  ye  who  bend  o'er  Friendship's  tomb 

In  deep  and  voiceless  wo, 
Who  sad'y  feel  no  second  bloom 

\  our  b  ighted  hearts  can  know — 
Why  will  ye  mourn  o'er  severed  ties 

Whiln  friends  around  vou  twine  ] 


Go !  yield  your  lost  one  to  the  skies, 
And  "  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 

Deep  in  the  garden  of  each  heart 

There  stands  a  dial  fair, 
And  often  is  its  snowy  chart 

Dark  with  the  clouds  of  care. 
Then  go,  and  every  shadow  chase 

That  dims  its  light  divine, 
And  write  upon  its  gleaming  face — 

"  I  mark  the  hours  that  shine." 


THE  CLOUD-SHIP. 

Lo  !  over  Ether's  glorious  realm 

A  cloud  ship  sails  with  favoring  breeze ; 

A  bright  form  stands  beside  the  helm, 
And  guides  it  o'er  the  ethereal  seas. 

Far  streams  on  air  its  banner  white, 
Its  swanlike  pinions  kiss  the  gale, 

And  now  a  beam  of  heaven's  light 
With  glory  gems  the  snowy  sail 

Perchance,  bright  bark,  your  snowy  breast 
And  silver-tissued  pinions  wide, 

Bear  onward  to  some  isle  of  rest 
Pure  spirits  in  life's  furnace  tried. 

Oh !  could  we  stay  each  swelling  sail 
Of  spotless  radiance  o'er  thee  hung, 

And  lift  the  bright,  mysterious  veil 
O'er  forms  of  seraph  beauty  flung — 

How  would  our  spirits  long  to  mount 
And  float  along  the  ethereal  way, 

To  drink  of  life's  unfailing  fount, 

And  bathe  in  heaven's  resplendent  day  ! 

But  lo!  the  gold-tiara'd  West 

Unfolds  her  sapphire  gates  of  light ; 

While  Day's  proud  monarch  bows  his  crest, 
And  bids  the  sighing  world  Good-night. 

And  now  the  cloud  ship  flies  along, 

Her  wings  with  gorgeous  colors  dressed, 

And  Fancy  hears  triumphant  song 
Swell  from  her  light-encircled  breast — 

As  to  the  wide  unfolded  gate, 
The  brilliant  portal  of  the  skies, 

She  bears  her  bright,  immortal  freight, 
The  glorious  soul  that  never  dies ! 
214 


- 


SOPHIA   HELEN    OLIVER. 


215 


THE  SHADOWS. 

THEY  are  gliding,  they  are  gliding, 

O'er  the  meadows  green  and  gay  ; 
Like  a  fairy  troop  they  're  riding 

Through  the  breezy  woods  away  ; 
On  the  mountain-tops  they  linger 

When  the  sun  is  sinking  low, 
And  they  point  with  giant  finger 

To  the  sleeping  vale  below. 

They  are  flitting,  they  are  flitting, 

O'er  the  waving  corn  and  rye, 
And  now  they're  calmly  sitting 

'Neath  the  oak-tree's  branches  high 
And  where  the  tired  reaper 

Hath  sought  the  sheltering  tree, 
They  dance  above  the  sleeper 

In  light  fantastic  glee. 

They  are  creeping,  they  are  creeping, 

Over  valley,  hill,  and  stream, 
Like  the  thousand  fancies  sweeping 

Through  a  youthful  poet's  dream. 
Now  they  mount  on  noiseless  pinions 

With  the  eagle  to  the  sky — 
Soar  along  those  broad  dominions 

Where  the  stars  in  beauty  lie. 

They  are  dancing,  they  are  dancing, 

Where  our  country's  banner  bright 
In  the  morning  beam  is  glancing 

With  its  stars  and  stripes  of  light ; 
And  where  the  glorious  prairies 

Spread  out  like  garden  bowers, 
They  fly  along  like  fairies, 

Or  sleep  beneath  the  flowers. 

They  are  leaping,  they  are  leaping, 

Where  a  cloud  beneath  the  moon 
O'er  the  lake's  soft  breast  is  sleeping, 

Lulled  by  a  pleasant  tune ; 
And  where  the  fire  is  glancing 

At  twilight  through  the  hall, 
Tall  spectre  forms  are  dancing 

Upon  the  lofty  wall. 

They  are  lying,  they  are  lying, 

Where  the  solemn  yew-tree  waves, 
And  the  evening  winds  are  sighing 

In  the  lonely  place  of  graves; 
And  their  noiseless  feet  are  creeping 

With  slow  and  stealthy  tread, 
Where  the  ancient  church  is  keeping 

Its  watch  above  the  dead. 

Lo,  they  follow  ! — lo,  they  follow, 

Or  before  flit  to  and  fro 
By  mountain,  stream,  or  hollow, 

Wherever  man  may  go ! 
And  never  for  another 

Will  the  shadow  leave  his  side — 
More  faithful  than  a  brother, 

Or  all  the  world  beside. 

Ye  remind  me,  ye  remind  me, 

0  Shadows  pale  and  cold  ! 

That  friends  to  earth  did  bind  me, 

Now  sleeping  in  the  mould ; 


The  young,  the  loved,  the  cherished, 
Whose  mission  early  done, 

In  life's  bright  noontide  perished 
Like  shadows  in  the  sun. 

The  departed,  the  departed — 

I  greet  them  with  my  tears ; 
The  true  and  gentle-hearted, 

The  friends  of  earlier  years. 
Their  wings  like  shadows  o'er  me 

Methinks  are  spread  for  aye, 
Around,  behind,  before  me, 

To  guard  the  devious  way. 


MINISTERING  SPIRITS. 

THEY  are  winging,  they  are  winging, 

Through  the  thin  blue  air  their  way ; 
Unseen  harps  are  softly  ringing 

Round  about  us,  night  and  day. 
Could  we  pierce  the  shadows  o'er  us, 

And  behold  that  seraph  band, 
Long-lost  friends  would  bright  before  ua 

In  angelic  beauty  stand. 

Lo !  the  dim  blue  mist  is  sweeping 

Slowly  from  my  longing  eyes, 
And  my  heart  is  upward  leaping 

With  a  deep  and  glad  surprise. 
I  behold  them — close  beside  me, 

Dwellers  of  the  spirit-land  ; 
Mists  and  shades  alone  divide  me 

From  that  glorious  seraph  band. 

Though  life  never  can  restore  me 

My  sad  bosom's  nestling  dove, 
Yet  my  blue-eyed  babe  bends  o'er  me 

With  her  own  sweet  smile  of  love; 
And  the  brother,  long  departed, 

Who  in  being's  summer  died — 
Warm,  and  true,  and  gentle-hearted — 

Folds  his  pinions  by  my  side. 

Last  called  from  us,  loved  and  dearest — 

Thou  the  faultless,  tried,  and  true, 
Of  all  earthly  friends  sincerest, 

Mother — I  behold  thee  too  ! 
Lo  !  celestial  light  is  gleaming 

Round  thy  forehead  pure  and  mild, 
And  thine  eyes  with  love  are  beaming 

On  thy  sad,  heart-broken  child! 
Gentle  sisters  there  are  bending, 

Blossoms  culled  from  life's  parterre; 
And  my  father's  voice  ascending, 

Floats  along  the  charmed  air. 
Hark  !  those  thrilling  tones  Elysian 

Faint  and  fainter  die  away, 
And  the  bright  seraphic  vision 

Fades  upon  my  sight  for  aye. 
But  I  know  they  hover  round  rm- 

In  the  morning's  rosy  light, 
And  their  unseen  forms  surround  me 

All  the  deep  and  solemn  night. 
Yes,  they  're  winging — yes,  they  're  winding 

Through  the  thin  blue  air  their  way : 
Spirit-harps  are  softly  ringing 

Round  about  us  night  and  uay. 


MARY    E.    LEE. 

(Born  1813— Died  1849.) 


Miss  MART  E.  LEE,  a  daughter  of  Mr. 
William  Lee,  and  niece  of  the  late  Judge 
Thomas  Lee,  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
has  been  for  many  years  a  frequent  contribu 
tor  to  the  literary  miscellanies,  in  both  prose 
and  verse.  Among  her  best  compositions 
are  several  poems,  in  ihe  ballad  style,  found 


ed  on  southern  traditions,  in  which  she  has 
shown  dramatic  skill,  and  considerable  abil 
ity  in  description.  One  of  the  best  of  these 
is  the  Indian's  Revenge,  a  Legend  of  Toccoa, 
in  Four  Parts,  printed  in  the  Southern  Lit 
erary  Messenger  for  1846.  Miss  Lee  is  also 
the  author  of  some  spirited  translations. 


THE  POKTS. 

THE  poets — the  poets — 

Those  giants  of  the  earth  : 
In  mighty  strength  they  tower  above 

The  men  of  common  birth  • 
A  noble  race — they  mingle  not 

Among  the  motley  throng, 
But  move,  with  slow  and  measured  steps, 

To  music-notes  along. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

What  conquests  they  can  boast ! 
Without  one  drop  of  life-blood  spilt, 

They  rule  a  world's  wide  host ; 
Their  stainless  banner  floats  unharmed 

From  age  to  lengthened  age  ; 
And  history  records  their  deeds 

Upon  her  proudest  page. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

How  endless  is  their  fame  ! 
Death,  like  a  thin  mist,  comes,  yet  leaves 

No  shadow  on  each  name ; 
But  as  yon  starry  gems  that  gleam 

In  evening's  crystal  sky, 
So  have  they  won,  in  memory's  depths, 

An  immortality. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

Who  doth  not  linger  o'er 
The  glorious  volumes  that  contain 

Their  bright  and  spotless  lore  ! 
They  charm  us  in  the  saddest  hours, 

Our  richest  joys  they  feed  ; 
And  love  for  them  has  grown  to  be 

A  universal  creed. 

The  poets — the  poets — 

Those  kingly  minstrels  dead, 
Well  may  we  twine  a  votive  wreath 

Around  each  honored  head  : 
No  tribute  is  too  high  to  give 

Those  crowned  ones  among  men. 
The  pools  !  the  true  poets  ! 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  them  ! 


AN  EASTERN  LOVE-SONG. 

AWAKE,  my  silver  lute; 

String  all  thy  plaintive  wires, 
And  as  the  fountain  gushes  free, 
So  let  thy  memory  chant  for  me 

The  theme  that  never  tires. 

Awake,  my  liquid  voice ; 

Like  yonder  timorous  bird, 
Why  dost  thou  sing  in  trembling  fear, 
As  if  by  some  obtrusive  ear 

Thy  secret  should  be  heard  1 

Awake,  my  heart — yet  no  ! 

As  Cedron's  golden  rill, 
Whose  changeless  echo  singeth  o'er 
Notes  it  had  heard  long  years  before, 

So  thou  art  never  still. 

My  voice!  my  lute!  my  heart! 

Spring  joyously  above 
The  feeble  notes  of  lower  earth, 
And  let  thy  richest  tones  have  birth 

Beneath  the  touch  of  love. 


THE  LAST  PLACE  OF  SLEEP. 

LAY  me  not  in  green  wood  lone, 
Where  the  sad  wind  maketh  moan, 
Where  the  sun  hath  never  shone, 

Save  as  if  in  sadness  ; 
Nor,  I  pray  tbee,  let  me  be 
Buried  'neath  the  chill,  cold  sea, 
Where  the  waves,  tumultuous,  free, 

Chafe  themselves  to  madness. 

But  in  yon  enclosure  small, 

Near  the  churchyard's  mossy  wall, 

WThere  the  dew  and  sunlight  fall, 

I  would  have  my  dwelling ; 
Sure  there  are  some  friends,  I  wot, 
Who  would  make  that  narrow  spot 
Lovely  as  a  garden  plot, 

With  rich  perfumes  swelling. 
216 


CATHERINE    H.   ESLING. 


217 


Let  no  costly  stone  be  brought, 
Where  a  stranger's  hand  hath  wrought 
Vain  inscription,  speaking  naught 

To  the  true  affections ; 
But,  above  the  quiet  bed, 
Where  I  rest  my  weary  head, 
Plant  those  buds  whose  perfumes  shed 

Tenderest  recollections. 


Then,  as  every  year  the  tide 
Of  strong  death  bears  to  my  side 
Those  who  were  by  love  allied — 

As  the  flowers  of  summer — 
Sweet  to  think,  that  from  the  mould 
Of  my  body,  long  since  cold. 
Plants  of  beauty  shall  enfold 

Every  dear  new  comer. 


CATHERINE    H.    ESLING. 

(Born  1812). 


Miss  CATHERINE  H.  WATERMAN  was  born 
in  Philadelphia,  in  1812  ;  and  under  her  mai 
den  name  she  became  known  as  an  author  by 


many  graceful  and  tender  effusions  in  the 
periodicals.  In  1840  she  was  married  tc 
Mr.  Esling,  a  shipmaster  of  her  native  city 


BROTHER,  COME  HOME. 

COME  home — 

Would  I  could  send  my  spirit  o'er  the  deep, 
Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee, 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
With  these  unwearying  words  of  melody  : 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home — 
Come  to  the  hearts  that  love  thee,  to  the  eyes 

That  beam  in  brightness  but  to  gladden  thine ; 
Come  where  fond  thoughts  like  holiest  incense  rise, 
Where  cherished  memory  rears  her  altar's  shrine. 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home — 
Come  to  the  hearth-stone  of  thy  earlier  days, 

Come  to  the  ark,  like  the  o'erwearied  dove ; 
Come  with  the  sunlight  of  thy  heart's  warm  rays, 
Come  to  the  fireside  circle  of  thy  love : 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home — 
It  is  not  home  without  thee :  the  lone  seat 

Is  st.ill  unclaimed  where  thou  were  wont  to  be, 
In  every  echo  of  returning  feet, 

In  vain  we  list  for  what  should  herald  thee : 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home — 

We've  nursed  for  thee  the  sunny  buds  of  spring, 
Watched  every  germ  the  full-blown  flowers  rear, 
Seen  o'er  their  bloom  the  chilly  winter  bring 
Its  icy  garlands,  and  thou  art  not  here : 
Brother,  come  home. 

Come  home — 
Would  I  could  send  my  spirk  o'er  the  deep, 

Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee — 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
With  these  unwearying  words  of  melody  : 
Brother,  come  home  ! 


HE  WAS  OUR  FATHER'S  DARLING 

HE  was  our  father's  darling, 

A  bright  and  happy  boy — 
His  life  was  like  a  summer's  day 

Of  innocence  and  joy  ; 
His  voice,  like  singing  waters, 

Fell  softly  on  the  ear, 
So  sweet,  that  hurrying  echo 

Might  linger  long  to  hear. 

He  was  our  mother's  cherub, 

Her  life's  untarnished  light — 
Her  blessed  joy  by  morning, 

Her  visioned  hope  by  night  ; 
His  eyes  were  like  the  daybeams 

That  brighten  all  below  ; 
His  ringlets  like  the  gathered  gold 

Of  sunset's  gorgeous  glow. 

He  was  our  sister's  plaything, 

A  very  child  of  glee, 
That  frolicked  on  the  parlor  floor, 

Scarce  higher  than  our  knee ; 
His  joyous  bursts  of  pleasure 

Were  wild  as  mountain  wind  ; 
His  laugh,  the  free,  unfettered  laugh 

Of  childhood's  chainless  mind. 

He  was  our  brothers'  treasure, 

Their  bosom's  only  pride — 
A  fair  depending  blossom 

By  their  protecting  side  : 
A  thing  to  watch  and  cherish, 

With  varying  hopes  and  fears — 
To  make  the  slender,  trembling  reed 

Their  staff  for  future  years. 

He  is — a  blessed  angel. 

His  home  is  in  the  sky ; 
He  shines  among  those  living  lights, 

Beneath  his  Maker's  eye  : 
A  freshly  gathered  lily. 

A  bud  of  eaily  doom, 
Hath  beeii  transplanted  from  the  earth. 

To  bloom  beyond  the  tomb. 


CAROLINE    M.    SAWYER. 

(Born  1812). 


CAROLINE  M.  FISHER,  now  Mrs.  SAWYER, 
was  born  at  the  close  of  the  year  1812,  in 
Newton,  Massachusetts,  where  she  resided 
until  her  marriage  with  the  Rev.  T.  J.  Saw 
yer —  one  of  the  most  eminent  scholars  and 
divines  of  the  Universalist  denomination — in 
September,  1832,  when  she  removed  to  the 
city  of  New  York.  At  the  end  of  about  fif 
teen  years  Mr.  Sawyer  was  chosen  presi 
dent  of  the  Universalist  seminary  at  Clinton 
in  Oneida  county,  and  of  this  pleasant  vil 
lage  he  became  a  resident,  upon  his  assump 
tion  of  the  office. 

Mrs.  Sawyer  was  very  carefully  and  thor 
oughly  educated  at  home,  under  the  care  of 
an  invalid  uncle  whose  life  had  been  passed 
in  pursuits  of  science  and  literature.  With 
aim  she  became  a  favorite,  and  to  his  early 
apprehension  of  her  abilities  and  anxiety  for 
their  full  development  she  is  indebted  for  her 
line  taste  and  large  knowledge,  particularly 
in  foreign  languages  and  their  most  celebra 


ted  authors.  She  commenced  the  composi 
tion  of  verse  at  an  early  age,  but  published 
little  until  after  her  marriage.  Since  then 
she  has  written  much  for  various  reviews 
and  other  miscellanies,  besides  several  vol 
umes  of  tales,  sketches,  and  essays,  for  chil 
dren  and  youth,  which  would  probably  have 
been  much  more  generally  known  if  they 
had  not  come  before  the  public  through  de 
nominational  channels  of  publication.  She 
has  also  made  numerous  translations  from 
the  best  German  literature,  in  prose  and  verse, 
in  which  she  has  evinced  a  delicate  appreci 
ation  of  the  originals  and  a  fine  command  of 
her  native  language. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Sawyer  are  numerous 
—  sufficient  for  several  volumes  —  though 
there  has  been  published  no  collection  of 
them.  They  are  serious  and  of  a  fresh  and 
vigorous  cast  of  thought,  occasionally  em 
bodied  in  forms  of  the  imagination  or  illus 
trated  by  a  chaste  and  elegant  fancy. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL. 

CROWN  her  with  garlands!  mid  her  sunny  hair 

Twine  the  rich  blossoms  of  the  laughing  May, 
The  lily,  snowdrop,  and  the  violet  fair, 

And  queenly  rose,  that  blossoms  for  a  day. 
Haste,  maidens,  haste  !   the  hour  brooks  no  delay — 

The  bridal  veil  of  soft  transparence  bring  ; 
And  as  ye  wreathe  the  gleaming  locks  away, 

O'er  their  rich  wealth  its  folds  of  beauty  fling — 

She  seeth  now ! 
Bring  forth  the  lyre  of  sweet  and  solemn  sound, 

Let  its  rich  music  be  no  longer  still ; 
Wake  its  full  chords,  till,  sweetly  floating  round, 

Its  thrilling  echoes  all  our  spirits  fill. 
Joy  for  the  lovely  !  that  her  lips  no  more 

To  notes  of  sorrow  tune  their  trembling  breath  ; 
Joy  for  the  young,  whose  starless  course  is  o'er ; 

16  !  sing  paeans  for  the  bride  of  Death ! 

She  seeth  now ! 
She  has  been  dark ;  through  all  the  weary  years, 

Since  first  her  spirit  into  being  woke, 
Through  those  dim  orbs  that  ever  swam  ii_  tears, 

No  ray  of  sunlight  ever  yet  hath  broke. 
Silent  and  dark  !  herself  the  sweetest  fiowei 

That  ever  blossomed  in  an  earthly  home, 
Un  uttered  yearnings  ever  were  her  dower,    [come. 

And  voiceless  prayers  that  light  at  length  might 
She  seeth  now  ! 


A  lonely  lot !  yet  oftentimes  a  sad 

And  mournful  pleasure  filled  her  heart  and  brain, 
And  beamed  in  smiles — e'er  sweet,  but  never  glad, 

As  Sorrow  smiles  when  mourning  winds  complain. 
Nature's  great  voice  had  ever  for  her  soul 

A  thrilling  power  the  sightless  only  know; 
While  deeper  yearnings  through  her  being  stole, 

For  light  to  gild  that  being's  darkened  flow. 

She  seeth  now! 
Strike  the  soft  harp,  then  !  for  the  cloud  hath  past, 

With  all  its  darkness,  from  her  sight  away ; 
Beauty  hath  met  her  waiting  eyes  at  last, 

And  light  is  hers  within  the  land  of  day. 
'Neath  the  cool  shadows  of  the  tree  of  life, 

Where  bright  the  fount  of  youth  immortal  springs, 
Far  from  this  earth,  with  all  its  weary  strife, 

Her  pale  brow  fanned  by  shining  seraphs'  wings, 

She  seeth  now ! 
Ah,  yes,  she  seeth  !  through  yon  misty  veil, 

Methinks  e'en  now  her  angel-eyes  look  down, 
While  round  me  falls' a  light  all  soft  and  pale — 

The  moonlight  lustre  of  her  starry  crown ; 
And  to  my  heart,  as  earthly  sounds  retire, 

Come  the  low  echoes  of  celestial  words, 
Like  sudden  music  from  some  haunted  lyre, 

That  strangely  swells  when  none  awake  its  chorda 
But,  hush  !  'tis  past;  the  light,  the  sound,  are  o'er* 
Joy  for  the  maiden  !  she  is  dark  no  more  ! 

She  seeth  now ! 
218 


CAROLINE    M.   SAWYER. 


219 


INFIDELITY  AND  RELIGION. 

Two  Spirits  o'er  an  open  grave  were  bending, 
Their  gaze  far  down  its  gloomy  chamber  sending. 
One,  with  a  brow  of  stern  and  cold  despair, 
And  sable  weeds  and  cypress  in  his  hair, 
Turned  not  his  eyes,  so  fixed  and  dark  with  wo, 
From  the  cold  pit,  which  fearful  yawned  below. 
The  other  stood  with  garments  pure  and  white 
As  deck  the  dwellers  of  the  land  of  light: 
Her  placid  brow  was  as  an  angel's  fair, 
While  ca'm  and  joyous  was  her  gentle  air; 
And  though  within  the  grave  she  dropped  a  tear, 
Her  upturned  eye  was  still  serene  and  clear. 

"  Life  !"  said  the  Spirit  with  the  brow  of  gloom, 
His  arm  outstretching  o'er  the  gaping  tomb — 
"  "Pis  a  deep  and  sullen  river, 

Ro.ling  slowly  to  the  sea, 
There  to  be  engu'fed  for  ever 
In  a  dark  eternity  !" 

"  Nay,"  said  the  shining  one,  with  upturned  eye, 
And  smile  so  clear  it  mirrored  back  the  sky — 
"Tis  a  sunny  streamlet  gliding 

Gently  on  to  seek  its  goal ; 
There  in  God's  own  bosom  hiding — 

Bright  and  pure,  a  white-robed  soul." 
But  the  dark  Spirit's  gloomy  voice  again 
Doled  out  in  slow  and  melancholy  strain  : 
u  'T  is  a  mournful  weed,  that  groweth 

Lone  and  friend  less  in  the  world, 
Which  a  ghastly  reaper  moweth, 
And  'tis  to  oblivion  hurled!" 

"  Nay,"  the  bright,  gentle  one  replied  once  more, 
And  softer  still  the  holy  smile  she  wore — 
"'Tis  a  starry  flower  upraising 

Through  a.l  ill-s  a  trusting  eye, 
Evermore  its  Maker  praising — 

Fading  here  to  bloom  on  high  !" 
Slowly  the  dark  one  sunk  his  gloomy  brow, 
As  once  again  he  murmured  sad  and  low  : 
"  'T  is  a  storm,  for  ever  sweeping 
O'er  a  bleak  and  barren  heath ; 
Tossing,  surging,  never  sleeping, 
Till  it  lull  in  endless  death  !" 

"  Nay  !"  and  the  hoping  Spirit's  hands  were  prest 
In  meek  and  holy  rapture  to  her  breast — 
"  'T  is  a  friendly  rain,  that  showers 

On  a  fair  and  pleasant  land, 
Where  the  darkest  cloud  that  lowers 
By  the  rainbow  still  is  spanned!" 
Stern  was  the  gaze  of  sorrow  and  despair 
That  now  was  fixed  upon  the  Spirit  fair, 
As,  a  last  time,  the  hopeless  waiter's  burst 
Of  anguish  came  more  drear  than  e'en  at  first : 
"  'Tis  a  haunting  vision,  blended 
Evermore  with  tears  and  pain : 
'T  is  a  dream,  that  best  were  ended ; 

Life  is  false,  and  life  is  vain !" 
Ceased  the  dark  Spirit — and  a  sable  cloud 
O'er  his  set  features  folded  like  a  shroud ; 
Then  slowly  sank,  as  sinks  the  dying  wave, 
In  the  dark  chambers  of  the  yawning  grave. 


Silently  closed  the  damp  turf  o'er  his  head, 
And  the  stern  Spirit,  like  the  mortal  dead, 
Came  not  again  from  out  his  gloomy  bed  ! 

"  Life  !"  said  the  shining  one,  as,  stretching  forth 
Her  long,  fair  arms,  she  blessed  the  teeming  earth — 
"  Life  is  true,  and  life  is  real ! 

Life  has  worthy  deeds  for  all ; 
'Tis  no  vain  and  false  ideal, 

Ending  with  the  shroud  and  pall. 
Up  and  do,  then,  dreaming  mortal ! 

With  a  strong  heart  toil  away ; 
Earth  has  cares,  but  heaven  a  portal 

Opening  up  to  endless  day  !" 

She  paused,  and  o'er  her  pure  and  spotless  breast 
Drew  the  soft  drapery  of  her  snowy  vest ; 
Her  long,  fair  arms  extended  yet  once  more 
To  bless  the  earth  she  oft  had  blessed  before ; 
Then  turned  away  to  pour  her  heavenly  light 
In  genial  floods  where  all  were  else  but  night. 

Still  dwells  she  here,  that  child  of  heavenly  birth — 
Soothing  the  sorrows  of  the  sons  of  earth  ; 
Drying  the  tears  that  dim  the  mourner's  eye ; 
Gently  subduing  Grief's  desponding  sigh  ; 
Winging  with  rapture  e'en  the  parting  breath, 
And  wreathing  smiles  around  the  lips  of  Death ! 

Blest  be  her  path  along  life's  rugged  way  ! 
Blest  be  her  smiles  which  light  the  darkest  day  ! 
And  blest  the  tears  that,  trusting  still,  she  weeps, 
Where  the  dark  Spirit  yet  in  silence  sleeps ! 


THE  VALLEY  OF  PEACE. 

It  was  a  beautiful  conception  of  tlie  Moravians  togiv«  to  rural  cemeto- 

OH,  come,  let  us  go  to  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 

There  earth's  weary  cares  to  perplex  us  shall  cease  ; 

WTe  will  stray  through  its  solemn  and  far-spreading 
shades, 

Till  twiligbt's  last  ray  from  each  green  hillock  fades. 

There  s'.umber  the  friends  whom  we  long  must  re 
gret — 

The  forms  whose  mild  beauty  we  can  not  forget ; 

We  will  seek  the  low  mounds  where  so  softly  they 
sleep, 

And  will  sit  down  and  muse  on  the  idols  we  weep : 

But  we  will  not  repine  that  they're  hid  from  our 
eyes, 

For  we  know  they  still  live  in  a  home  in  the  skies ; 

But  we'll  pray  that,  when  life's  weary  journey 
shall  cease, 

We  may  slumber  with  them  in  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 

Oh,  sad  were  our  path  through  this  valley  of  tears 
If,  when  weary  and  wasted  with  toil  and  with  years 
No  home  were  prepared  where  the  pilgrim  miurht 
Mortality's  cumbering  vestments  away  !  [lay 

But  sadder,  and  deeper,  a;id  darker  the  gloom, 
That  would  close  o'er  our  way  as  we  speed  to  tho 
If  Faith  pointed  not  to  that  heavenly  goal,     [tomb, 
Where  the  Sun  of  eternity  beams  on  the  soul ! 
Oh,  who,  mid  the  sorrows  and  changes  of  time. 
E'er  dreamed  of  that  holier,  that  happier  clime. 


220 


CAROLINE    M.  SAWYER. 


But  yearned  for  the  hour  of  the  spirit's  release — 
For  a  pillow  of  rest  in  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 
Oh  come,  thou  pale  mourner,  whose  sorrowing  gaze 
Seems  fixed  on  the  shadows  of  long-vanished  days, 
Sad,  sad  is  thy  tale  of  bereavement  and  wo, 
And  thy  spirit  is  weary  of  life's  garish  show ! 
Come  here :  I  will  show  thee  a  haven  of  rest, 
Where  sorrow  no  longer  invades  the  calm  breast; 
Where  the  spirit  throws  off  its  dull  mantle  of  care, 
And  the  robe  is  ne'er  folded  o'er  secret  despair ! 
Yet  the  dwelling  is  lonely,  and  silent,  and  cold, 
And  the  soul  may  shrink  back  as  its  portals  unfold  ; 
But  a  bright  Star  has  dawned  through  the  shades 

of  the  east. 
That  will  light  up  with  beauty  the  Valley  of  Peace ! 

Thou  frail  child  of  error !  come  hither  and  say, 
Has  the  world  yet  a  charm  that  can  lure  thee  to 
Ah,  no !  in  thine  aspect  are  anguish  and  wo,  [stay  ] 
And  deep  shame  has  written  its  name  on  thy  brow. 
Pooi  outcast !  too  long  hast  thou  wandered  forlorn, 
In  a  path  where  thy  feet  are  all  gored  with  the  thorn ; 
Where  thy  breast  by  the  fang  of  the  serpent  is  stung, 
And  scorn  on  thy  head  by  a  cold  world  is  flung ! 
Come  here,  and  find  rest  from  thy  guilt  and  thy  tears, 
And  a  sleep  sweet  as  that  of  thine  innocent  years ; 
We  will  spread  thee  a  couch  where  thy  woes  shall 

all  cease  : 
Oh,  come  and  lie  down  in  the  Valley  of  Peace  ! 

The  grave,  ah,  the  grave  !  'tis  a  mighty  stronghold, 
The  weak,  the  oppressed,  all  are  safe  in  its  fold : 
There  Penury's  toil-wasted  children  may  come, 
And  the  helpless,  the  houseless,  at  last  find  a  home. 
What  myriads  unnumbered  have  sought  its  repose, 
Since  the  day  when  the  sun  on  creation  first  rose ; 
And  there,  till  earth's  latest,  dread  morning  shall 

break, 

Shall  its  wide  generations  their  last  dwelling  make : 
But  beyond  is  a  world — how  resplendently  bright ! 
And  all  that  have  lived  shall  be  bathed  in  its  light. 
We  shall  rise — we  shall  soar  where  earth's  sorrows 

shall  cease. 
Though  our  mortal  clay  rests  in  the  Valley  of 

Peace ! 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  ANGEL. 

"  OH,  mother,  I've  been  with  an  angel  to-day  ! 
I  was  out,  all  alone,  in  the  forest  at  play, 
Chasing  after  the  butterflies,  watching  the  bees, 
And  hearing  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  trees; 
So  I  played,  and  I  played,  till,  so  weary  I  grew, 
I  sat  down  to  rest  in  the  shade  of  a  yew, 
While  the  birds  sang  so  sweetly  high  up  on  its  top, 
I  held  my  breath,  mother,  for  fear  they  would  stop. 
Thus  a  long  while  I  sat,  looking  up  to  the  sky, 
And  watching  the  clouds  that  went  hurrying  by, 
When  I  heard  a  voice  calling  just  over  my  head, 
That  sounded  as  if  «  Come,  oh  brother !'  it  said ; 
And  there,  right  over  the  top  of  the  tree, 
O  mother,  an  angel  was  beckoning  to  me ! 

"And,  'Brother,'  once  more,  'come,  oh  brother!' 

he  cried, 
And  flew  on  light  pinions  close  down  by  my  side  ; 


And  mother,  oh,  never  was  being  so  bright 
As  the  one  which  then  beamed  on  my  wondering 
His  face  was  as  fair  as  the  de  icate  shell,     [sight ! 
His  hair  down  his  shoulders  in  fair  ringlets  fell, 
While  his  eyes  resting  on  me,  so  melting  with  love, 
Were  as  soft  and  as  mild  as  the  eyes  of  a  dove. 
And  somehow,  dear  mother,  I  felt  not  afraid, 
As  his  hand  on  my  brow  he  caressingly  laid, 
And  murmured  so  softly  and  gently  to  me, 
'  Come,  brother,  the  angels  are  waiting  for  thee  !' 
"  And  then  on  my  forehead  he  tenderly  pressed 
Such  kisses — oh,  mother,  they  thrilled  through  my 

breast, 

'As  swiftly  as  lightning  leaps  down  from  on  high, 
When  the  chariot  of  God  rolls  along  the  black  sky  ; 
While  his  breath,  floating  round  me,  was  soft  as 

the  breeze 

That  played  in  my  tresses,  and  rustled  the  trees ; 
At  last  on  my  head  a  deep  blessing  he  poured, 
Then  plumed  his  bright  pinions  and  upward  he 

soared — 

And  up,  up  he  went,  through  the  blue  sky,  so  far, 
He  seemed  to  float  there  like  a  glittering  star, 
Yet  still  my  eyes  followed  his  radiant  flight, 
Till,  lost  in  the  azure,  he  passed  from  my  sight. 
Then,  oh  how  I  feared,  as  I  caught  the  last  gleam 
Of  his  vanishing  form,  it  was  only  a  dream — 
When  soft  voicesmurmured  once  more  from  the  tree, 
'  Come,  brother,  the  angels  are  waiting  for  thee  !'  " 

Oh,  pale  grew  that  mother,  and  heavy  her  heart, 
For  she  knew  her  fair  boy  from  this  world  must 

depart ; 
That  his  bright  locks  must  fade  in  the  dust  of  the 

tomb, 
Ere  the  autumn  winds  withered  the  summer's  rich 

bloom. 
Oh,  how  his  young  footsteps  she  watched,  day  by 

day, 

As  his  delicate  form  wasted  slowly  away, 
Till  the  soft  light  of  heaven  seemed  shed  o'er  his  face, 
And  he  crept  up  to  die  in  her  loving  embrace  ! 
"  Oh,  clasp  me,  dear  mother,  close,  close  to  your 
On  that  gentle  pillow  again  let  me  rest ;     [breast ; 
Let  me  once  more  gaze  up  to  that  dear,  loving  eye, 
And  then,  oh,  methinks,  I  can  willingly  die. 
Now  kiss  me,  dear  mother — oh,  quickly — for  see, 
The  bright,  blessed  angels  are  waiting  for  me  !" 

Oh,  wild  was  the  anguish  that  swept  through  her 

breast, 

As  the  long,  frantic  kiss  on  his  pale  lips  she  pressed, 
And  felt  the  vain  search  for  his  soft,  pleading  eye, 
As  it  strove  to  meet  hers  ere  the  fair  boy  could  die. 
"  I  see  you  not,  mother,  for  darkness  and  night 
Are  hiding  your  dear,  loving  face  from  my  sight ; 
But  I  hear  your  low  sobbings :  dear  mother,  good 
The  angels  are  ready  to  bear  me  on  high.  [by  ! 
I  will  wait  for  you  there ;  but,  oh,  tarry  not  long, 
Lest  grief  at  your  absence  should  sadden  my  song !" 
He  ceased,  and  his  hands  meekly  clasped  on  hia 

breast, 
While  his  sweet  face  sank  down  on  its  pillow  of 

rest; 

Then  closing  his  eyes,  now  all  rayless  and  dim, 
WTcnt  up  with  the  angels  that  waited  for  him. 


CAROLINE    M.   SAWYER 


221 


THE   LADY  OF  LURLEI.* 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  RHINE. 

!*SKKST  thou  the  lad}7  on  yonder  steep, 

Whose  crags  beetle  over  the  billowy  deep  ? 

Her  robes  of  the  sea-green  waves  are  wove, 

And  her  eyes  are  blue  as  the  skies  above  : 

Her  golden  tresses,  like  sunlight,  roam 

O'er  a  neck  more  pure  than  the  wreathing  foam, 

As  her  long  white  arms  on  the  breeze  she  flings, 

And  in  sweet,  low,  silvery  accents  sings 

To  the  sti'l,  gray  morning  her  strange  wi'd  lay — 

Away,  to  the  lady,  good  boatman,  away  !" 

A  film  crept  over  the  boatman's  sight, 

And  his  arm  grew  weak,  and  his  cheek  grew  white, 

As  he  saw  the  lady  poised  high  in  air, 

With  her  sea-green  robes  and  her  flowing  hair ! 

"Sir  knight,  'twould  peril  our  lives  to  ride, 

In  the  stanchest  boat,  o'er  this  surging  tide, 

When  yon  wild  lady  at  morn  is  seen 

On  Luriei's  cliff,  with  her  robes  of  green  ! 

Beware  !  for  evil  befalls  the  knight 

Who  dares  to  wish  for  a  nearer  sight !" 

"  Go,  preach  thy  fears  to  the  timid  girl, 
Or  the  craven  coward,  thou  tremb  ing  churl ! 
The  knight  who  the  shock  of  an  hundred  fields 
Has  borne,  to  no  fancied  danger  yields  : 
Then  over  the  waves,  with  thy  bounding  skiff, 
To  the  strange  bright  lady  of  Lurlei's  c'.iff ; 
And  take,  as  thy  guerdon,  this  golden  chain — 
For  me,  none  peril  their  lives  in  vain  !" 

He  took  the  chain,  and  he  spake  no  more, 

But  his  strong  arm  shook,  as  he  grasped  the  oar, 

And  gave  his  bark  to  the  rolling  deep, 

To  ferry  the  knight  to  the  fatal  steep  ! 

The  skies  grew  black,  and  the  winds  blew  high, 

And  ominous  birds  flew  shrieking  by, 

And  roaring  surges  piled  up  the  strand 

With  a  terrible  wall  as  they  nearcd  the  land. 

"  Back,  back  !"  the  boatman  with  white  lips  cried, 

"  Nor  dare  thus  madly  this  fearful  tide  !" 

But  the  brave  knight  turned  with  a  dauntless  brow, 

And,  bo!d  y  spurning  the  graceful  prow, 

Plunged  fearlessly  over  the  light  skiff's  side, 

And  eagerly  breasted  the  foaming  tide  ! 

Strange  faces  arose  to  his  troubled  eye, 

As  the  whiriing  waters  swept  wildly  by — 

Fierce  voices  hissed  in  his  failing  ear, 

And  his  stout  frame  trembled,  but  not  with  fear, 

For  his  breath  he  held  and  his  arm  he  strained, 

Till  the  waves  were  passed  and  the  shore  was  gained. 

Then,  swiftly  scaling  the  steep  ascent, 

Before  the  lady  he  breathless  bent ! 

He  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom  fair, 

His  fingers  toyed  with  her  golden  hair — • 

Whi'e  "  Mine  for  ever,"  she  wildly  sung, 

As  round  him  her  long  white  arms  she  flung  ! 

"  Bold  knight,  come  down  in  the  sunless  deep, 

Where  peris  warble  and  naiads  sleep — 

Come  down  and  dwell  with  the  ocean-maid, 

Where  the  blight  ne'er  falls  and  the  flowers  ne'er 

fade  !" 

*  Lurlei  is  the  name  of  a  rocky  cliff  on  the  shores  of 
the  Rhine. 


She  pressed  her  lips  to  his  glowing  cheek, 
She  lured  him  along  the  dangerous  peak — 
One  moment  they  stood  on  the  dizzy  verge — 
The  next,  sank  down  'neath  the  sounding  surge 

The  winds  were  hushed,  and  the  waves  were  laid, 
And  insects  small  in  the  sunbeams  played — 
The  boat  returned  to  the  distant  shore, 
But  the  knight  and  the  lady  were  seen  no  more  ! 


THE  WIFE'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

OH,  why  are  you  sad  when  all  others  are  gay  ' 

Is  earth  darker  now  than  in  life's  early  day  ? 

Is  the  kind  hand  withdrawn  that  upheld  us  of 

yore, 
Or  the  bright,  laughing  sunshine  around  us  no 

more  ? 

No  :  earth  is  still  smiling,  and  nature  is  clad 
In  all  her  old  beauty — then  why  art  thou  sad  ] 

True,  some  friends,  grown  faithless,  seem  cold  and 

estranged, 

But  others  are  left  us  whose  love  is  unchanged — 
Whose  hearts,  through  all  seasons  of  good  and 

of  ill, 

Like  the  ivy  around  us  cling  faithfully  still : 
Let  us  cherish  them  deep  in  our  hearts,  and  be 

glad, 
For  oh,  with  such  blessings  how  can  we  be  sad  ! 

You  say  we  are  poor  ! — ah,  I  have  not  forgot 
That  to  struggle  with  fortune  is  ofttimes  our  lot; 
But  think  you  that  we  are  less  happy  than  they 
Who  drag  on  mid  splendor  their  wearisome  day  ? 
For  their  wealth  would  you  barter  the  bliss  we 

have  had  ] 
Oh  no  !  then  what  need  have  our  hearts  to  be  sad  ] 

Why  fear  for  the  future  ? — for  nine  years  or  more 
We  have  managed  to  keep  the  gaunt  wolf  from 

our  door ; 
And  why,  in  the  days  yet  to  come,  should  our 

state, 

Though  humble,  be  marked  by  a  gloomier  fate  ? 
Let  us  give  God  our  thanks  for  the  past,  and  be 

glad- 
How  much  more  need  have  others,  than  we,  to  be 

sad  ! 

I  know  there  are  seasons  when,  strive  as  we  will; 
Presentiment  whispers  for  ever  of  ill ; 
There  are  dark-boding  visions  of  trouble  and  pain, 
That  lurk  in  the  heart  till  they  madden  the  brain ! 
Wo,  wo  for  that  bosom  !  it  can  not  be  glad — 
Oh  God,  shield   us  well  from  such  cause  to  be 
sad! 

Let  us  humbly  hope  on — and  if  dark  be  our  way, 
Remember  that  night  is  e'er  followed  by  day ; 
Though  tempests  and  whirlwinds  may  rage  through 

the  skies, 
They  will  pass,  and  the  sunbeams  again  meet  our 

eyes : 
Let  our  hearts  and  our  brows,  then,  in  sunshine 

be  clad, 
For  God  made  us  not  to  be  gloomy  and  sad  ! 


222 


CAROLINE    M.   SAWYER. 


MY  SLEEPING  CHILDREN. 

YE  sleep,  ray  children  !    On  your  soft,  blue  eyes — 
Those  eyes  that  once,  like  summer  sunlight  glancing, 
From  rnorn  till  eve  with  joy  seemed  ever  dancing, 
A  mournful  slumber  lies  ! 

Ye  sleep,  but  I — I  wake  to  watch  your  rest ; 
Yet  not  as  erst, when,  round  your  temples  wreathing, 
The  light  locks  stirred  at  every  gentle  breathing 
From  your  lull,  quiet  breast. 

No  more  my  finger  on  my  lips  I  lay, 
Lest  so;ne  rude  soundjSome  sudden  footstep — jarring 
Your  litt.e  couch,  and  the  hushed  stillness  marring — 
Shou.d  chase  your  sleep  away. 

Ah,  no  !  the  winds  go  moaning  o'er  your  heads, 
And  the  sweet  dryads  of  the  valley,  winging 
In  airy  circles,  wild,  shrill  strains  are  singing 
Above  your  grassy  beds  ! 

But  ye  awake  not — they  disturb  not  now: 
And  a  vain  gush  of  childlike  grief  comes  o'er  me, 
As  the  dread  memory,  sudden  sweeps  before  me, 
That  death  is  on  your  brow  ! 

Oh,  precious  ones  !  that  seemed  too  fair  to  die — 
My  soft-eyed  Mary,  child  of  seraph  sweetness  : 
Bright  vision,  vanished  with  a  shadow's  fleetness — 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  1 — why  ] 

Wcrl  weary,  gentle  dove,  of  this  cold  world  1 
And  didst  thou  long  to  rest  thy  little  pinions 
Far  in  those  bright  and  beautiful  dominions, 

Where  they  at  last  are  furled  ] 
Wert  homesick,  darling  ]     Could  thy  little  heart 
Yearn  for  a  love  more  tender  than  we  bore  thee — 
Yearn  for  a  watch  more  fond  and  faithful  o'er  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  hence  depart  ? 

That  thou  shouldst  hence,and  leave  rnehere behind 
To  fold  thy  little  robes  in  silent  anguish — 
To  dry  my  tears,  then  weep  again — to  languish 
For  what  I  can  not  find  ! 

Had  my  low  cradle-song  no  longer  charms — 
That  cradle-song  whose  soft  and  plaintive  numbers 
Lulled  thee  each  evening  to  thy  peaceful  slumbers — 
To  keep  thee  in  my  arms 

And  thou,  my  boy  !  my  beautiful — my  own  ! 
Twin  cherub  of  the  one  who  stands  beside  rne, 
Grieving  that  we  within  the  earth  should  hide  thee, 

And  leave  thee  all  alone — 
Grieving  that  thou  canst  play  with  him  no  more  ; 
That,  though  his  tears  upon  thy  grave  are  falling, 

Thy  voice  replies  not  to  his  mournful  calling 

Unheeded  ne'er  before  ! 

Did  the  sweet  cup  of  life  already  cloy, 
That  from  thy  lips,  ere  scarcely  it  was  tasted — 
Ere  from  its  brim  one  sparkling  gleam  was  wasted, 
Thou  laidst  it  down,  my  boy  1 

J\  ay,  wherefore  question  ?    To  my  pleading  vain, 

No  voice  to  still  my  spirit's  restless  yearning 

No  sweet  rep'y,  to  soothe  my  heart's  deep  burning, 
Comes  from  your  graves  again  ! 

Ve  were — ye  art  not !  Thus  earth's  bloom  decays : 
I  watch  the  flowers  'neath  Autumn's  footstep  dying, 


Yet  know  the  spring-breath,  through  the  valleys 
Each  from  its  tomb  will  raise  !       [sighing, 

But  ye — oh  ye  !  though  soft  the  vernal  rain, 
The  sweet  spring  showers  stern  winter's  chain  dis 
solving — 

May  round  you  fall  earth's  loveliest  flowers  evolving, 
Ye  will  not  bloom  again  ! 

Though  by  the  streams,  and  all  the  meadows  o'er, 
Mid  woods  and  dells,  the  south's  gay  clarion  ringing, 
May  peal,  till  life  is  everywhere  upspringing, 
Ye — ye  will  wake  no  more  ! 

Nay,  ye  will  wake !  not  here,  not  here — but  there, 
In  heaven  !  Oh,  there  ye  bloom  e'en  now — where 

never 
Falls  the  chill  blight,  and  each  sweet  flower  for  ever 

Lives  beautiful  and  fair  ! 

There  shall  I  find  you — stainless,  pure,  and  bright, 
As  the  pure  seraph-eyes,  whose  myriad  numbers 
Are  watching  now,  above  your  peaceful  slumbers, 
From  the  far  zenith's  height : 

There  shall  I  clasp  you  to  my  heart  once  more, 
And  feel  your  cheeks  mine  own  with  rapture  pres 
sing, 

Till  all  my  being  thrills  with  your  caressing, 
And  all  its  pain  is  o'er  ! 

Dear  ones,  sleep  on  !    A  low,  mysterious  tone, 
Solemn  yet  sweet,  my  spirit's  ear  is  filling — 
Each  wilder  grief  within  my  bosom  stilling, 
And  hushing  sorrow's  moan. 

It  tells  me  that,  no  shadow  on  your  brow, 
Far  from  the  clouds  that  closely  round  me  gather, 
Clasped  on  the  bosom  of  the  Good  All-Father, 
Ye 're  blest  and  happy  now. 

Ay,  blest  and  happy  !  never  more  shall  tears 
Dim  those  sweet  eyes;  temptation  ne'er  shall  round 

you 
Wind  its  dark  coils,  nor  guilt  nor  falsehood  wound 

Through  all  your  endless  years.  [you, 

Farewell  awhile  !  Ye  were  my  heart's  delight — 
Ye  were  sweet  stars,  my  spirit's  clouds  dissolving, 
Round  which  my  heart  was  evermore  revolving, 

Like  some  fond  satellite. 
Ah,  well  I  loved  you — but  I  yield  you  up, 
Without  one  murmur,  at  my  Father's  calling . 
With  childlike  trust,  though  fast  my  tears  are  falling, 
I  drink  the  bitter  cup. 

I  drink — for  He,  whom  angels  did  sustain 
In  the  dread  hour  when  mortal  anguish  met  him, 
When  friends  forgot,  and  deadly  foes  beset  him, 
Stands  by  to  soothe  my  pain. 

I  drink — for  thou,  0  God,  preparedst  the  draught 
Which  to  my  lips  thy  Father-hand  is  pressing  . 
I  know  'neath  ills  oft  lurks  the  deepest  blessing — 
Father,  the  cup  is  quaffed  ! 

'Tis  quaffed — and  now,  O  Father,  I  restore 
The  little  children  thou  in  mercy  sent  me  : 
Sweet  blessings  were  they,  for  a  season  lent  me — 
Take  back  thine  own  once  more  ! 

Yet,  oh,  forget  not,  Lord,  thy  child  is  weak  : 
The  dregs  are  bitter  which  my  lips  are  draining, 


CAROLINE    M.  SAWYER. 


223 


And  my  faint  heart  hath  need  of  thy  sustaining — 
Father,  thy  child  is  weak  ! 

Yet,  take  thine  own  !  their  souls  are  innocent — 
Their  little  lives  were  beautiful  and  blameless : 
I  bring  them  back  to  thee,  pure,  white,  and  stainless, 
E'en  as  when  they  were  lent. 

Keep  them,  and  make  them  each  a  shining  gem 
Mid  the  bright  things  which  fill  the  bovvers  of  heaven, 
Till  my  soul,  too,  shall  soar,  earth's  fetters  riven, 
Home — home,  to  thee  and  them  ! 


LAKE  MAHOPAC 

LAKE  of  the  soft  and  sunny  hills, 

What  loveliness  is  thine  ! 
Around  thy  fair,  romantic  shore, 

What  countless  beauties  shine  ! 
Shrined  in  their  deep  and  hollow  urn, 

Thy  silver  waters  lie — 
A  mirror  set  in  waving  gems 

Of  many  a  regal  dye. 

Like  angel  faces  in  a  dream, 

Bright  isles  upon  thy  breast, 
Veiled  in  soft  robes  of  hazy  light, 

In  such  sweet  silence  rest — 
The  rustle  of  a  bird's  light  wing, 

The  shiver  of  the  trees, 
The  chime  of  waves — are  all  the  sounds 

That  freight  the  summer  breeze. 

Oh.  beautiful  it  is  along 

Thy  silver  wave  to  glide, 
And  watch  the  ripples  as  they  kiss 

Our  tiny  vessel's  side  ; 
While  ever  round  the  dipping  oar 

White  curls  the  feathery  spray, 
Or,  from  its  bright  suspended  point, 

Drips  tinklingly  away. 

And  pleasant  to  the  heart  it  is 

In  those  fair  isles  to  stray, 
Or  Fancy's  idle  visions  weave 

Through  all  the  golden  day, 
Where  dark  old  trees,  around  whose  stems 

Caressing  woodbines  cling, 
O'er  mossy,  flower-enamel'ed  banks, 

Their  trembling  shadows  fling. 

Oh,  he  who  in  his  daily  paths 

A  weary  spirit  bears, 
Here  in  these  peaceful  solitudes 

May  he  lay  down  his  cares  : 
No  echo  from  the  restless  world 

Shall  his  repose  invade, 
Where  the  spectres  of  the  haunted  heart 

By  Nature's  self  are  laid. 

I  stood  upon  thy  shore,  fair  lake  ! 

Long  parted  was  the  day, 
And  shadows  of  the  eventide 

Upon  the  waters  lay  ; 
But  from  the  sky  the  silver  moon, 

All  radiant  and  serene, 
Attended  by  eve's  dewy  star, 

Smiled  sweetly  o'er  the  scene. 


The  earth  was  mute — no  sound,  save  mine 

Own  beating  heart,  I  heard, 
When  suddenly  the  listening  air 

With  melody  was  stirred  : 
The  low,  faint  chime  of  lapsing  waves, 

The  voice  of  whispering  boughs, 
Waked  by  the  night-winds  gentle  touch, 

In  mingled  sweetness  rose. 
Oh,  dear  and  hallowed  was  that  hour : 

O'er  being's  troubled  tide 
Still  waters  of  eternal  peace 

Seemed  solemnly  to  glide, 
Whose  anthems,  deep,  subdued,  and  low, 

Through  all  my  throbbing  soul, 
Like  breathings  from  a  brighter  world, 

In  pleading  murmurs  stole. 
Oh,  dear  and  hallowed  was  the  hour  ! 

Along  life's  mazy  track, 
An  angel  from  the  paths  of  ill 

Hath  ofttimes  lured  me  back ; 
It  watched  above  me  at  my  birth, 

It  led  me  when  a  child, 
And  here,  beside  the  moonlit  waves, 

Once  more  upon  me  smiled. 
Lake  of  the  hills  !  around  me  yet 

I  feel  thy  magic  spell — 
Still,  still  by  Fancy  led,  I  pace 

Thy  dreamy  island  dell ; 
The  sere  leaves,  rustling  to  my  tread, 

Are  heaped  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  graves  of  long,  long  centuries 

Lie  thickly  clustering  round. 
T  was  hither,  old  traditions  tell, 

The  Indian  of  yore 
Forth  from  the  peopled  haunts  of  life 

His  dead  in  silence  bore, 
And,  trenching  reverently  the  sod, 

Within  earth's  loving  breast, 
With  his  bow  and  arrows  by  his  side, 

Here  laid  him  down  to  rest. 
Fit  place  of  sepulture  !  tall  trees 

In  columned  arches  rise, 
Through  whose  thick-woven  boughs  steal  down 

Soft  glimpses  of  the  skies. 
Amid  their  leaves,  like  spirit  strains, 

^Eolian  sounds  awake, 
And  o'er  the  long-forgotten  dead 

A  solemn  requiem  make. 
Ah,  peace  !  while  on  this  rocky  seat 

Myself  once  more  I  cast, 
And  people  all  the  island  shades 

With  phantoms  of  the  past, 
Till  from  the  grand  old  beetling  rocks, 

That  far  above  me  frown, 
A  thousand  dusky  faces  gaze 

In  ;nournful  silence  down. 
They  gaze — while  in  their  troubled  hearts 

Wild  memories  seem  to  lie, 
And  fearful  meanings  darkly  flit 

O'er  many  a  burning  eye  ; 
Pale  warriors  lift  their  folded  hands 

In  mute,  appealing  prayer, 
Then  clasp  them  o'er  their  snent  breasts 

In  deep  and  stil'  despair  ! 


CAROLINE    M.   SAWYER. 


B  |f,  see — those  sternly-lifted  brows! 

Quick  change  comes  o'er  my  dream: 
Each  phantom  form  is  flashing  now 

With  strange  and  sudden  gleam; 
Swift  feathery  arrows  cleave  the  air, 

From  coppice,  trees,  and  rocks, 
And  the  wild  glen  hisses  to  the  paths 

Of  hurtling  tomahawks  ! 

I  start  -  I  clutch  the  air — and  lo ! 

My  fearful  dream  is  o'er ; 
Kind  human  voices  call  me  back 

To  the  bright  world  once  more — 
Kind,  faithful  hands,  that  grasp  mine  own, 

Conduct  me  from  the  dell : 
One  last,  one  lingering  gaze  on  thee — 

Thou  p'ace  of  graves,  farewell ! 

Lake  of  the  hills  !  my  song  has  ceased  ; 

But  should  my  feet  no  more 
Thread  thy  fair  island  glades,  or  pace 

Thy  richly  varving  shore, 
A  memory  lives  within  my  breast, 

That,  wheresoe'er  I  be, 
As  the  heavens  are  mirrored  by  thy  wave, 

Will  ever  mirror  thee  ! 


THE  WARRIOR'S  DIRGE. 

WARRIOR,  rest :  thy  toils  are  ended — 

Life's  last  fearful  strife  is  o'er ; 
Clarion  calls,  with  death-notes  blended, 

Shall  disturb  thine  ear  no  more. 
Peaceful  is  thy  dreamless  slumber — 

Peaceful — but  how  cold  and  stern  ! 
Thou  hast  joined  that  silent  number 

In  the  land  whence  none  return. 

Warrior,  rest :  thy  banner  o'er  thee 

Hangs  in  many  a  drooping  fold  ; 
Many  a  manly  cheek  before  thee 

Stained  with  tear-drops  we  behold. 
Thine  was  not  a  hand  to  falter, 

When  thy  sword  shou'd  leave  its  sheath ; 
Thine  was  not  a  cheek  to  alter, 

Though  thy  duty  led  to  death. 

Warrior,  rest:  a  dirge  is  knelling 

Solemnly  from  shore  to  shore ; 
'Tis  a  nation's  tribute,  telling 

That  a  patriot  is  no  more. 
Thou,  where  Freedom's  sons  have  striven, 

Firm  and  bold,  didst  foremost  stand  ; 
Free'y  was  thy  life-blood  given 

For  thy  home  and  fatherland. 

Warrior,  rest :  our  star  is  vanished 

That  to  victory  led  the  way, 
And  from  one  lone  hearth  is  banished 

All  that  cheered  life's  weary  day ; 
There  thy  young  bride  weeps  in  sorrow 

Tnat  no  more  she  hears  thy  tread — 
That  the  night  which  knows  no  morrow 

Darkly  veils  thy  laurelled  head. 

Warrior,  rest :  we  smooth  thy  pillow 
For  thy  last,  long  earthly  sleep ; 


Oh,  beneath  yon  verdant  willow 

Storms  unheard  will  o'er  thee  sweep. 

There,  't  is  done  ! — thy  couch  awaits  thee — 
Softly  down  thy  head  we  lay; 

Here  repose,  till  God  translates  thee 
From  the  dust  to  endless  day  ! 


REUNION. 

NAY,  pause  not  yet !  another  strain — 

A  strain  to  bid  the  spirit  start — 
Glad  songs  for  those  who  meet  again, 

And  blend  together  heart  with  heart ! 
Give  to  the  winds  each  anxious  thought 

Which  o'er  our  bliss  a  shade  might  cast; 
These  hours,  by  weary  absence  bought, 

Should  be  all  sunshine  to  the  last. 

What  though  we  part  again  to-morrow, 

For  years,  perhaps,  no  more  to  meet  ? 
We  will  not  of  the  future  borrow 

One  pang  to  mar  an  hour  so  sweet. 
Swell  high  the  strain,  then  !  let  our  souls 

W'ith  mirth  and  gayety  be  filled, 
And  brightly,  as  each  moment  rolls, 

Be  drops  of  ecstasy  distilled  ! 

Hush,  hark  !  amid  our  rapture  now, 

What  strange,  low,  sorrowing  tone  comesnear? 
Why  steals  a  shadow  o'er  each  brow, 

And  through  each  mirthful  smile  a  tear  ! 
Alas  !  the  spirit  can  not  brook 

The  voice  of  careless  glee  to-day, 
But,  from  each  thoughtless  word  and  look, 

Turns,  sick  and  shuddering,  away. 

Oh,  hush  the  song  !  lest  feeling's  tide 

Grow  mightier  than  may  be  controlled : 
Then  calmly  seated,  side  .by  side, 

Each  other's  hand  we'll  fondly  hold. 
Linger  a  little  longer  yet, 

And  breathe  your  sweet  words  o'er  mine  ear; 
Oh,  I  can  die — but  ne'er  forget 

This  hour,  so  beautiful  and  dear  ! 


i  PEBBLES. 

GTTE  me  the  pebble,  little  one,  that  I 
To  yon  bright  pool  may  hurtle  it  away : 
Look!  how't  has  changed  the  azure  wave  to  gray, 

And  blotted  out  the  image  of  the  sky  ! 

So,  when  our  spirits  calm  and  placid  lie — 
When  all  the  passions  of  the  bosom  sleep, 
And  from  its  stirless  and  unruffled  deep 

Beams  up  a  heaven  as  bright  as  that  on  high, 
Some  pebble — envy,  jealousy,  misdoubt — 

Dashed  in  our  bosom's  slumbering  waves  to  jar, 
Will  cloud  the  mirrored  surface  of  the  soul, 
And  blot  its  heaven  of  joy  and  beauty  out. 

Sin !  fling  no  pebble  in  my  soul,  to  mar 
Its  solemn  depths,  and  o'er  it  clouds  to  roll ! 


MARGARET    L.   BAILEY. 

(Born  1812). 


MRS.  BAILEY  is  a  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Shands,  and  was  born  in  Sussex 
county,  Virginia,  on  the  twelfth  of  Decem 
ber,  1812.  When  she  was  about  six  years 
of  age,  her  father  removed  to  theAVest ;  and 
in  1833  she  Avas  married  to  Mr.  G.  Bailey, 
junior,  subsequently  editor  of  the  Cincinnati 
Philanthropist,  then  of  the  Cincinnati  Morn 
ing  Herald,  and  now  of  the  National  Era,  at 
Washington.  In  March,  1844,  Mrs.  Bailey 
became  editress  of  The  Youth's  Monthly 
Visiter,  at  Cincinnati,  and  conducted  it,  with 
a  circulation  which  arose  to  some  three  thou- 


!  sand  copies,  until  her  removal  to  the  District 
of  Columbia,  near  the  close  of  1840.  This 

|  periodical  was  perhaps  the  first  of  its  class 
ever  published  in  the  country,  and  its  con 
tents  justify  the  critical  opinion  of  Mr.  Wil 
liam  D.  Gallagher,  that  Mrs.  Bailey  is  one 
of  the  ablest  women  of  the  age. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Bailey  have  appeared 
in  the  journals  edited  by  herself  and  her 
husband,  and  there  has  been  no  collected  edi 
tion  of  them.  They  have  less  individuality 
than  her  prose,  but  they  are  informed  with 

i  fancy  and  a  just  understanding. 


LIFE'S  CHANGES. 

A  LITTLE  child  on  a  sunny  day, 
Sat  on  a  flowery  bank  at  play ; 
The  gentle  breath  of  the  summer  air 
Waved  the  curls  of  her  golden  hair, 
And  ever  her  voice  rang  merrily  out 
In  a  careless  laugh  or  a  joyous  shout. 

Beautiful  was  she  as  early  morn, 
When  the  dew  is  fresh  on  the  blossoming  thorn; 
And  methought  as  I  looked  on  her  fair  young  face, 
Beaming  with  beauty  and  truth  and  grace, 
How  cold  and  heartless  the  world  must  be, 
That  could  su!ly  such  spotless  purity  ! 

Years  ro  led  by  :  in  her  maiden  pride 
She  stood,  a  gentle  and  trusting  bride — 
How  beautiful  still  !  though  a  softening  shade 
O'er  the  dazzling  hue  of  that  beauty  played, 
Whi'e  the  tender  glance  of  her  soft  blue  eye 
Told  of  a  love  that  could  not  die  : 
And  I  prayed  as  T  gazed  on  her  placid  brow, 
Pure  as  a  wreath  of  new-fallen  snow, 
That  sorrow,  the  sorrow  that  comes  to  all, 
Light'y  and  gently  on  her  might  fall. 

Again  I  saw  her:  Time  had  been  there, 
Tipping  with  silver  her  golden  hair; 
He  had  breathed  on  her  cheek,  and  its  rosy  hue 
Was  gone,  but  her  heart  was  pure  and  true, 
As  when  first  I  met  her  a  budding  flower, 
Or  a  gentle  maid  in  her  bridal  hour. 
As  mother  and  wife  she  bad  borne  her  part, 
With  the  faith  and  hope  of  a  loving  heart ; 
And  now  when  nature,  with  years  opprest, 
Looks  and  longs  for  her  quiet  rest, 
With  holy  trust  in  her  Father's  love, 
Awaiting  a  summons  from  above, 
She  lingers  with  us,  as  if  to  show 
To  the  faint  and  weary  ones  below, 
How  oft  to  the  faithful  soul  ^t  is  given 
To  taste  on  earth  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 
15 


THE  PAUPER  CHILD'S  BURIAL. 

STRETCHED  on  a  rude  plank  the  dead  pauper  lay: 
No  weeping  friends  gathered  to  bear  him  away ; 
His  white,  slender  fingers  were  clasped  on  his  breast 
The  pauper  child  meekly  lay  taking  his  rest. 

The  hair  on  his  forehead  was  carelessly  parted ; 
No  one  cared  for  him,  the  desolate  hearted  : 
In  life  none  had  loved  him — his  pathway,  all  sear 
Had  not  one  sweet  blossom  its  sadness  to  cheer. 

No  fond,  gentle  mother  had  ever  caressed  him, 
In  tones  of  affection  and  tenderness  blessed  him ; 
For  ere  his  eye  greeted  the  light  of  the  day, 
His  mother  had  passed  in  her  anguish  away. 

Poor  litt'e  one  !  often  thy  meek  eyes  have  sought 
The  smile  of  affection,  of  kindness  unbought, 
And  wistfully  gazing,  in  wondering  surprise, 
That  no  one  beheld  thee  with  pitying  eyes. 

And  when  in  strange  gladness  thy  young  voice  was 

heard, 

As  in  winter's  stern  sadness  the  song  of  a  bird, 
Harsh  voices  rebuked  thee,  and,  cowering  in  fear, 
Thy  glad  song  was  hushed  in  a  sob  and  a  tear. 

And  when  the  last  pang  rent  thy  heartstrings  in 

twain, 

And  burst  from  thy  bosom  the  last  sign  of  pain, 
No  gentle  one  soothed  thee,  in  love's  melting  tone, 
With  fond  arm  around  thee  in  tenderness  thrown. 

Stern  voices  and  cold  mingled  strange  in  thine  ear 
With  the  songs  of  the  angels  the  dying  may  hear; 
And  thrillingly  tender,  amid  Death's  alarms, 
Was  thy  mother's  voice  welcoming  thee  to  her  arms. 

Thy  fragile  form,  wrapped  in  its  coarse  snioud 

reposes  . 

In  slumbers  as  sweet  as  if  pillowed  on  roses 
And  while  on  thy  coffin  the  rude  clods  are  pressed, 
The  good  Shepherd  folds  the  shorn  lamb  to  his  r>roa«t 
225 


MARGARET   L.   BAILEY. 


MEMORIES. 

On,  pleasant  are  the  memories 

Of  childhood's  forest  home, 
And  oft,  amid  the  toil*  of  lifn, 

Like  bless(:d  dreams  they  come  : 

Of  sunset  hours  when  I  lay  entranced, 

Mid  shadows  cool  and  green, 
Watching  the  winged  insects  glance, 

In  summer's  golden  sheen  : 

Theii  drowsy  hum  was  a  lullaby 

To  Nature's  quiet  sleeping, 
While  o'er  the  meadow's  dewy  breast 

The  evening  winds  were  creeping : 

The  ploughman's  whistle  heard  afar, 
To  his  humb'e  home  returning  ; 

And  faintly  in  the  gathering  shade 
The  firefly's  lamp  was  burning. 

Up  in  the  old  oak's  pleasant  shade, 

Where  mossy  branches  swing, 
With  gentle  twitterings,  soft  and  low, 

Nestling  with  fluttering  wing — 

Were  summer  birds — their  tender  notes 
Like  love's  own  fond  caressing, 

When  a  mother  folds  her  little  flock, 
With  a  whispered  prayer  and  blessing. 

The  cricket  chirps  from  the  hollow  tree, 

To  the  music  of  the  rill, 
And  plaintively  echoes  through  the  wood 

The  song  of  the  whip-poor-will. 

Tinged  with  the  last  faint  light  of  day, 

A  white  cloud  in  the  west 
Floats  in  the  azure  sea  above, 

Like  a  ship  on  ocean's  breast. 

The  evening  star  as  a  beacon  shines 

On  the  far  horizon's  verge, 
And  the  wind  moans  through  the  distanl  pines, 

Like  Ihe  troubled  ocean's  surge. 

From  lowly  va'es  the  rising  mist 

Curls  up  the  hillside  green, 
And  its  summit,  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Like  a  fairy  isle  is  seen. 

Away  in  the  depths  of  ether  shine 

The  stars  serenely  bright — 
Gems  in  the  glorious  diadem, 

Circling  the  brow  of  night. 

Our  Father  !  if  thy  meaner  works 

Thus  beautiful  appear, 
If  such  revealings  of  thy  love 

Enkindle  rapture  here — 

If  to  our  mortal  sense  thou  dost 

Thy  treasures  thus  unfold, 
When  death  shall  rend  this  earthly  veil, 

How  shall  our  eyes  behold 

Thy  glory — when  the  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the.  starry  zone 
And  in  thy  presence  folds  her  wing, 

And  bows  before  thy  throne  ' 


ENDURANCE. 

WTHE:V,  upon  wings  of  rainbow  hues, 

Hope  flits  across  thy  pathway  here, 
And  gently  as  the  morning  breeze 

Her  waving  pinion  dries  thy  tear, 
Oh,  yield  not  all  thy  soul  to  joy, 

Let  not  her  blandishments  allure  : 
Life's  greenest  spot  hath  withered  flowers — 

Whate'er  thy  lot,  thou  must  endure. 

If,  on  the  mountain's  topmost  cliff, 

The  flag  of  victory  seems  unfurled, 
And  Faith,  exulting,  sees  afar 

Earth's  idol,  Error,  downward  hurled, 
Deem  not  the  triumph  thou  shall  share — 

God  keeps  his  chosen  vessels  pure ; 
The  final  reckoning  is  on  high, 

On  earth  thy  meed  is  to  endure. 
W7ith  chastened  heart,  in  humble  faith, 

Thy  labor  earnestly  pursue, 
As  one  who  fears  to  such  frail  deeds 

No  recompense  is  due  : 
Wax  not  faint-hearted — while  thou  toil'st, 

Thy  bread  and  water  shall  be  sure ; 
Leaving  all  else  to  God,  be  thou 

Patient  in  all  things  to  endure. 


DUTY  AND  REWARD. 

EVERY  day  hath  toil  and  trouble, 

Every  heart  hath  care  : 
Meekly  bear  thine  own  full  measure, 

And  thy  brother's  share. 
Fear  not,  shrink  not,  though  the  burden 

Heavy  to  thee  prove ; 
God  shall  fill  thy  mouth  with  gladness, 

And  thy  heart  with  love. 
Patiently  enduring,  ever 

Let  thy  spirit  be 
Bound  by  links,  that  can  not  sever, 

To  humanity. 
Labor — wait !  thy  Master  perished 

Ere  his  task  was  done  ; 
Count  not  lost  thy  fleeting  moments, 

Life  hath  but  begun. 

Labor  !  and  the  seed  thou  sowest 

Water  with  thy  tears  ; 
God  is  faithful — he  will  give  thee 

Answer  to  thy  prayers. 

Wait  in  hope  !  though  yet  no  verdure 

Glad  thy  longing  eyes, 
Thou  shall  see  the  ripened  harvest 

Garnered  in  the  skies. 
Labor — wait !  though  midnight  shadows 

Gather  round  thee  here, 
And  the  storms  above  Ihee  lowering 

Fill  Ihy  hearl  wilh  fear — 

Wait  in  hope  :  the  morning  dawneth 

When  the  night  is  gone, 
And  a  peaceful  rest  awaits  thee 

W  hcu  thy  \\  ork  is  done. 


LAURA    M.    THURSTON. 


(Born  1812-Died  1842). 


LAURA  M.  HAWLEY,  afterward  Mrs.  THURS 
TON,  was  born  in  Norfolk,  Connecticut,  in  De 
cember,  1812.  She  completed  her  education 
in  the  Hartford  Female  Seminary,  and  sub 
sequently  was  a  teacher  in  Hartford  and  New 
Milford,  Connecticut,  in  Philadelphia,  and  in 
New  Albany,  Indiana.  In  the  latter  place 
she  was  married,  in  September,  1839,  to  Mr. 
Franklin  Thurston,  a  merchant ;  and  surren 


dering-  the  school  of  which  she  had  been  the 
principal,  to  other  hands,  she  resided  there 
until  her  death,  which  occurred  on  the  twen 
ty-first  of  July,  1842.  Under  the  signature 
of  "  Viola';  Mrs.  Thurston  had  made  herself 
known  by  many  productions  marked  by  feel 
ing  and  a  melodious  versification,  which  were 
fjr  the  most  part  originally  published  in  the 
Louisville  Journal. 


THE  GREEN  HILLS  OF  MY  FATHERLAND. 

THE  green  hills  of  my  fatherland 

In  dreams  sti'.l  greet  my  view : 
I  see  once  more  the  wave-girt  strand, 

The  ocean  depth  of  blue ; 
The  sky,  the  glorious  sky,  outspread 

Above  their  calm  repose  ; 
The  river,  o'er  its  rocky  bed 

Still  singing  as  it  flows  ; 
The  stillness  of  the  sabbath  hours, 

When  men  go  up  to  pray ; 
The  sunlight  resting  on  the  flowers, 
The  birds  that  sing  among  the  bowers 

Through  all  the  summer  day. 

Land  of  my  birth — mine  early  love — 

Once  more  thine  airs  I  breathe  : 
I  see  thy  proud  hills  tower  above, 

Thy  green  vales  sleep  beneath  ; 
Thy  groves,  thy  rocks,  thy  murmuring  rills, 

All  rise  before  mine  eyes ; 
The  dawn  of  morning  on  thy  hills, 

Thy  gorgeous  sunset  skies; 
Thy  forests,  from  whose  deep  recess 

A  thousand  streams  have  birth, 
Gladdening  the  lonely  wi'derness, 
Ami  filling  the  green  silentness 

With  melody  and  mirth. 

(.  wonder  if  my  home  would  seem 

As  lovely  as  of  yore ; 
I  wonder  if  the  mountain  stream 

Goes  singing  by  the  door ; 
And  if  the  flowers  still  bloom  as  fair, 

And  if  the  woodbines  climb, 
As  when  I  used  to  train  them  there, 

In  the  dear  olden  time ; 
I  wonder  if  the  birds  still  sing 

Upon  the  garden  tree, 
As  sweetly  as  in  that  sweet  spring 
Whose  golden  memories  gently  bring 

So  many  dreams  to  me. 


I  know  that  there  hath  been  a  change, 

A  change  o'er  hall  and  hearth — 
Faces  and  footsteps  new  and  strange 

About  my  place  of  birth : 
The  heavens  above  are  still  as  bright 

As  in  the  days  gone  by, 
But  vanished  is  the  beacon  light 

That  cheered  my  morning  sky ; 
And  hill,  and  vale,  and  woodland  glen, 

And  rock,  and  murmuring  stream, 
That  wore  such  glorious  beauty  then, 
Wou'd  seem,  should  I  return  again. 

The  record  of  a  dream. 

I  mourn  not  for  my  childhood's  hours, 

Since,  in  the  far-off  west, 
'Neath  sunnier  skies,  in  greener  bowers, 

My  heart  hath  found  its  rest. 
I  mourn  not  for  the  hills  and  streams 

That  chained  my  steps  so  long, 
Yet  still  I  see  thee  in  my  dreams, 

And  hail  them  in  my  song; 
And  often  by  the  hearth-fire's  blaze, 

When  winter  eves  shall  come, 
W'e'll  sit  and  talk  of  other  days, 
And  sing  the  well-remembered  lays 

Of  my  green  mountain  home. 


CROSSING  THE   ALLEGANIES. 

THE  broad,  the  bright,  the  glorious  Wesl, 

Is  spread  before  me  now ! 
Where  the  gray  mists  of  morning  rest 

Beneath  yon  mountain's  brow! 
The  bound  is  past,  the  goal  is  won , 
The  region  of  the  setting  sun 

Is  open  to  my  view : 
Land  of  the  valiant  and  the  free — 
Mv  own  Green  Mountain  land — to  the* 

And  thine  a  long  adieu  ! 
227 


228 


MARTHA    DAY. 


I  hail  thce,  Valley  of  the  West, 

For  what  thou  yet  shall  be  ; 
I  hail  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rest 

Upon  thy  destiny  ! 

Here,  from  this  mountain  height,  I  see 
Thv  bright  waves  floating  to  the  sea, 

Thine  emerald  fields  outspread  ; 
And  feel  that,  in  the  book  of  fame, 
Proudly  shall  thy  recorded  name 

In  later  days  be  read. 

Yet,  while  I  gaze  upon  thee  now, 

All  glorious  as  thou  art, 
A  cloud  is  resting  on  my  brow, 

A  weight  upon  my  heart. 
To  me,  in  all  thy  youthful  pride, 
Thou  art  a  land  of  cares  untried 

Of  untold  hopes  and  fears ; 
Thou  art — yet  not  for  thee  I  grieve ; 
But,  for  the  far-off  land  I  leave, 

I  look  on  thee  with  tears. 


Oh  !  brightly,  brightly  glow  thy  skies 

In  Summer's  sunny  hours! 
The  green  earth  seems  a  paradise 

Arrayed  in  summer  flowers ! 
But  oh  !  there  is  a  land  afar, 
Whose  skies  to  me  are  brighter  far, 

Along  the  Atlantic  shore  ! 
For  eyes  beneath  their  radiant  shrine 
In  kindlier  glances  answered  mine: 

Can  these  their  light  restore  ] 

Upon  the  lofty  bound  I  stand 

That  parts  the  East  and  West; 
Before  me  lies  a  fairy  land — 

Behind,  a  home  of  rest ! 
Here,  Hope  her  wild  enchantment  flings, 
Portrays  all  bright  and  lovely  things 

My  footsteps  to  allure ; 
But  there,  in  Memory's  light,  I  see 
All  that  was  once  most  dear  to  me — 

My  young  heart's  cynosure  ! 


MARTHA    DAY. 


(Born  1813 

Miss  DAY  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  emi 
nent  president  of  Yale  College,  and  was  born 
in  New  Haven  on  the  thirteenth  of  Febru 
ary,  1813.  She  was  educated  at  the  best 
schools  in  Connecticut,  and  was  particularly 
distinguished  for  her  acquirements  in  math 
ematics  and  languages.  She  died  suddenly, 
when  but  twenty  years  of  age,  on  the  second 
of  December,  1833,  and  in  the  following  year 


-Died  1833). 

a  collection  of  her  Literary  Remains,  with 
Memorials  of  her  Life  and  Character,  was 
published  at  New  Haven  by  her  friend  and 
relative.  Prof.  Kingsley.  Her  poems  were 
buds  of  promise,  which  justified  the  anticipa 
tions  that  were  entertained  of  her  eminence 
in  literature.  The  following  hymn  was  de 
signed  to  be  inserted  in  an  unwritten  drama, 
suggested  by  an  incident  in  the  life  of  David. 


HYMN. 

FATHER  Almighty! 
From  thy  high  seat  thou  watchest  and  controllest 

The  insects  that  upon  thy  footstool  creep, 
While,  with  a  never-wearied  hand,  thou  rollest 

Millions  of  worlds  along  the  boundless  deep. 
O  Father !  now  the  clouds  hang  blackening  o?er  us, 

And  the  dark,  boiling  deeps  beneath  as  yawn  : 
Scatter  the  tempests,  quell  the  waves  before  us ; 

To  the  wild,  fearful  night  send  thou  a  bless  -d  dawn. 

Father  All  Holy  ! 
When  thou  shalt  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  glory, 

Thi;  steadfast  earth,  the  strong,  untiring  sea, 
Their  verdant  isles,  their  mountains  high  and  hoary, 

With  awe  and  fear  shall  from  thy  presence  flee. 
Then  shalt  thou  sit  a  Judge,  the  guilty  dooming 

To  adamantine  chains  and  endless  lire: 
Oh,  Father !  how  may  we  abide  thy  coming  1 

Where  find  a  shelter  from  the  pure  Jehovah's  ire  1 

Father  All  Merciful ! 
Still  7iiay  the  guilty  come  in  peace  before  thee, 

Bathing  thy  feet  with  tears  of  love  and  wo; 
And  while  for  pardon  only  we  implore  thee, 

Blessings  divine   unnumbered,  o'er  us  flow. 


Father,  her  heart  from  all  her  idols  tearing, 
Thine  erring  child  again  would  turn  to  thee ; 

To  thee  she  bends,  trembling,  yet  not  despairing : 
From  fear,  remorse,  and  sin,  0  Father !  set  her  free. 


LINES  ON  PSALM  CII. 

THK  boundless  universe, 
All  that  it  hath  of  splendor  and  of  life, 
The  living,  moving  worlds,  in  their  bright  robes 
Of  blooming  lands  and  heaving,  glittering  watery 
Even  the  still  and  holy  depths  of  heaven, 
Where  the  glad  planets  bathe  in  floods  of  light, 
For  ever  pouring  from  a  thousand  suns, 
All,  all  are  but  the  garments  of  our  Gon, 
Yea,  the  dark  foldings  of  his  outmost  skirts ! 
Mortal !  who  with  a  trembling,  longing  heart, 
Watchest  in  silence  the  few  rays  that  steal, 
In  their  kind  dimness,  to  thy  feeble  sight — 
Watch  on,  in  silence,  till  within  thy  soul, 
Bearing  away  each  taint  of  sin  and  death, 
Springs  the  hid  fountain  of  immortal  life  ! 
Then  shall  the  mighty  veil  asunder  rend, 
And  o'er  the  spirit — living,  strong,  and  pure — 
Shall  the  full  glories  of  the  Godhead  flow  ! 


MARY    ANN    HANMER    DODD, 


(Born  1813). 


Miss  DOFD  is  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Elisha 
Dodd,  of  Hartford,  Connecticut,  and  was  born 
in  ISIS.  Her  first  appearance  as  an  author 
was  in  1834  when  she  contributed  a  few 
poems  to  The  Hermenethean,  a  miscellany 
conducted  by  the  students  of  Washington 
(now  Trinity)  College.  She  has  since  writ 
ten  frequently  for  the  Ladies'  Repository,  a 
monthly  magazine,  and  The  Rose  of  Sharon, 
an  annual,  edited  for  several  years  by  her 
friend  the  late  Mrs.  Mayo.  A  collection  of 


her  poems  was  published  at  Hartford  in  1843, 
Miss  Dodd  writes  with  taste  and  feeling,  and 
her  writings  would  have  been  known  more 
generally  and  perhaps  more  favorably  if  she 
had  not  confined  herself  so  much  to  denomi 
national  channels  of  publication.  Like  Mrs. 
Scott,  Mrs.  Mayo,  Mrs.  Sawyer,  Mrs.  Case, 
the  Careys,  and  some  others  who  are  quoted 
in  this  volume,  she  is  of  the  Universalist 
church,  though  her  religious  compositions  are 
all  addressed  to  universal  sympathies. 


LAMENT. 

SCMMKR  departs!  the  golden  hours  are  dying! 

In  the  green  glade  its  minstrelsy  is  still ; 
A  purple  haze,  like  a  thin  veil,  is  lying 

On  the  calm  waters  and  the  distant  hill. 
Cooler  the  breeze  that  waits  upon  the  morning; 

Paled  is  the  sp'endor  of  the  noontide  ray  ; 
Fewer  the  flowers  the  forest  path  adorning; 

Earlier  the  Iwi  ight  fades  in  gloom  away. 

Summer  departs,  and  thou,  too,  hast  departed  ! 

Thou,  who  wert  joy  and  sunshine  to  thy  friends ; 
What  have  thev  now,  the  lonely  and  sad-hearted, 

But  the  low  mound  which  o'er  thy  slumber  bends] 
The  Power  that  pales  the  season  as  its  closes, 

And  folds  the  brightness  in  the  blossom's  breast, 
Bade  Death  go  forth  among  the  fading  roses, 

And  bear  thy  spirit  to  its  promised  rest. 

Summer, sweet  Summer!  saddened  in  thy  waning, 

A  shadow  falleth  on  thy  garlands  gay ; 
A  deeper  gloom  is  on  thy  path  remaining, 

Since  one  beloved  hath  with  thee  passed  away  ! 
Thou  wilt  come  back;  but  when  thy  skies  are  burn- 

And  thy  fair  presence  gladdens  all  the  plain,  [ing, 
How  can  we  ever  joy  in  thy  returning  1 

How  can  we  welcome  thee  with  smiles  again  1 

Thou  wi!t  not  wake  the  dead,  in  silence  sleeping, 

Who  vanished  from  us  with  thy  long,  bright  days ; 
Thou  wilt  not  call  the  form  the  grave  is  keeping, 

Once  more  to  meet  and  bless  our  lingering  gaze. 
So  is  it  best — thou  friend,  returning  never! 

Thou,  the  true-hearted,  generous,  and  kind  ! 
For  thee  'tis  best:  when  kindred  spirits  sever, 

They  only  suffer  who  remain  behind. 

Thou  art  secure  from  ill.     Life's  toil  is  ended; 

Finished,  for  thee,  its  feverishness  and  strife  ; 
Its  discords  in  one  harmony  are  blended ; 

Its  seeming  gloom  is  all  with  brightnes-  rife. 
Oh !  in  that  glorious  land  the  good  inherit, 

Canst  thou  the  anguish  of  a  mourner  see, 
Who  finds  the  only  spell  that  soothes  her  spirit 

In  weaving  thus  a  sad  lament  for  thee ! 


THE  MOURNER. 

THOU  weepesv  for  a  sister !     In  the  bloom 

And  spring-time  of  her  years  to  Death  a  prey, 
Shrouded  from  love  by  the  remorseless  tomb, 

Taken  from  all  life's  joys  and  griefs  away. 
'Tis  hard  to  part  with  one  so  sudden  called, 

So  young,  so  happy,  and  so  dearly  loved ; 
To  see  the  arrow  at  our  idol  hurled, 

And  vainly  pray  the  shaft  may  be  removed. 

Young,  loving,  and  beloved  !     O  cruel  Death ! 

Couldst  thou  not  spare  the  treasure  for  a  while  1 
There  are  warm  hearts  that  wait  to  yield  their  breath, 

And  aged  eyes  that  can  no  longer  smile. 
WThy  pass  the  weary  pilgrims  on  their  way 

Bowed  down  with  toil,  and  sighing  for  relief; 
To  make  the  blossom  in  its  pride  thy  prey, 

Whose  joyous  heart  had  never  tasted  grief] 

Sad  sister,  turn  not  hopelessly  away  ; 

Nor  longer  at  the  will  of  Heaven  repine ; 
Fold  not  thy  hands  in  agony  and  say, 

"  There  is  no  sorrow  in  the  world  like  mine." 
Oh  !  could  my  numbers  soothe  the  sinking  soul, 

Or  one  hope  waken  with  the  wreath  I  twine, 
Soft  sounds  of  sympathy  should  round  thee  roll 

Warm  from  a  heart  that  knows  such  pain  as  thine. 

I,  too,  have  been  a  mourner.     Sorrow  deep 

Its  lava-tide  around  my  pathway  rolled ; 
And  sable  weeds  a  hue  could  never  keep, 

Sad  as  the  heart  they  hid  beneath  their  fold. 
All  joy  grew  dim  before  my  tearful  eye, 

Which  but  the  shadow  of  t.he  grave  could  see; 
There  was  no  brightness  in  the  earth  or  sky, 

There  was  no  sunshine  in  the  world  for  me. 

Oh  !  bitter  was  the  draught  from  Sorrow's  cup, 

And  stern  the  anguish  which  rny  spirit  wrung, 
When  I  was  called  to  give  mine  idol  up, 

And  bend  a  mourner  o'er  the  loved  and  young 
And  for  the  lost  to  weep  is  still  my  choice : 

I  ask  for  one  whose  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
And  vainly  listen  for  a  vanished  voice, 

Whose  p'.easant  tones  shall  greet  my  ear  n->  rr.ory 
229 


230 


MARY   A.   H.   DODD. 


There  is  a  spell  around  my  spirit  cast, 

A  shadow  where  the  sanbeam  smiled  before; 
'Tis  grief,  but  all  its  bitterness  is  past; 

'Tis  sorrow,  but  its  nmrmurings  are  o'er. 
Within  my  soul,  which  to  the  storm  was  bowed, 

Now  the  white  wing  of  Peace  is  folded  deep; 
And  I  have  found,  I  trust,  behind  the  cloud, 

The  blessing  promised  to  the  eyes  that  weep. 

So  thou  wilt  fmd  relief.     For  deepest  wo 

A  fount  of  healing  in  our  pathway  springs ; 
Like  Lethe's  stream,  that  silver  fountain's  flow 

A  soothing  draught  unto  the  sufferer  brings. 
A  Father  chastened  thee  !   oh,  look  to  Him, 

And  his  dear  love  in  all  thy  trials  see  ; 
Look  with  the  eye  of  faith  through  shadows  dim, 

And  he  will  send  the  Comforter  to  thee. 


TO  A  CRICKET. 

CEASE,  cricket!  cease  thy  melancholy  song! 
Its  chiming  cadence  falls  upon  mine  ear 
With  such  a  saddening  influence  all  day  long, 
I  can  not  bear  those  mournful  notes  to  hear; 
Notes  that  will  often  start  the  unbidden  tear, 
And  wake  the  heart  to  memories  of  old  days, 
When  life  knew  not  a  sorrow  or  a  fear : 
For  ever  basking  in  the  sunny  rays 

Which  seem  so  passing  bright  to  youth's  all-trustful 

gaze. 

Once  more  my  steps  are  stayed  at  eventide, 
Beneath  the  fairest  moon  that  ever  shone  ; 
Where  the  old  oak  threw  out  its  branches  wide 
Over  the  low  roof  of  mine  early  home ; 
Ere  yet  my  bosom  knew  a  wish  to  roam 
From  the  broad  shelter  of  that  ancient  tree, 
Or  dreamed  of  other  lands  beside  our  own, 
Beyond  the  boundary  of  that  flowery  lea ; 

For  the  green  valley  there  was  world  enough  for  me. 

A  group  are  gathered  round  the  household  hearth, 
Where  chilly  Autumn  bids  the  bright  flame  play  ; 
And  social  converse  sweet,  and  childhood's  mirth, 
Swiftly  beguile  the  lengthened  eve  away  : 
A  laughing  girl  shakes  back  her  tresses  gay, 
With  a  half-doubtful  look  and  wondering  tone — 

Hark  !   there  is  music  !  do  you  hear  the  lay  1 
Mother,  what  is  it  singing  in  the  stone  1 
some  luckless  fairy  wight  imprison' d  there  alone?"... 

Wake  not  remembrance  thus  !  for  stern  the  fate 
That  marks  my  pathway  with  a  weary  doom ; 
And  to  a  heart  so  worn  and  desolate, 
Thy  boding  voice  may  add  a  deeper  gloom. 
Though  few  the  clouds  which  o'er  the  blue  sky 
A  nd  green  the  livery  of  our  forest  bowers,     [roam, 
To  warn  us  of  a  sure  decay  ye  come, 
In  sable  guise,  trailing  the  faded  flowers, 
Singing  the  death-song  sad  of  Summer's  waning 

hours ! 

Those  emerald  robes  will  change  to  russet  brown, 
Which  Summer  over  vale  and  hillside  cast; 
To  other  skies,  that  know  no  wintry  frown, 
Bright  birds  shall  wing  their  weary  way  at  last; 
And  Autumn's  hectic  hues  which  fade  so  fast 


Will  make  the  dark  old  woods  awhile  look  gay; 
But  Death  must  come  when  the  rare  show  is  past: 
Then  cease  thy  chant,  dark  prophet  of  decay  ! 
I  can  not  bear  to  hear  thy  melancholy  lay  ! 


THE  DREAMER. 


"A  dark,  cold  calm,  whidi  nothing  now  ran  break, 

Or  warm,  or  brighten;  like  that  Syrian  Like. 
•  surface  Morn  ami  Summer  shed 
in  vain,  for  all  beneath  is  dead!" 


Upon  wl 
Their 


HKAKT  of  mine,  why  art  thou  dreaming! 

Dreaming  through  the  weary  day, 
While  life's  precious  hours  are  wasting, 

Fast  and  unimproved  away  1 

With  a  world  of  beauty  round  me, 
Lone  and  sad  I  dwell  apart; 

Changing  scenes  can  bring  no  pleasure 
To  this  wrecked  and  worn-out  heart 

Now  I  tempt  the  quiet  Ocean 
W7hile  the  sky  is  bright  above, 

And  the  sunlight  rests  around  me, 
Like  the  beaming  smile  of  Love. 

Or  by  streamlet  softly  flowing 

Through  the  vale  I  wander  now7 ; 

And  the  balmy  breath  of  Summer 
Fans  my  cheek  and  cools  my  brow. 

But  as  well,  to  me,  might  darken 
Over  all  the  gloom  of  night ; 

For  no  quick  and  sweet  sensations 
Fill  my  soul  with  new  delight. 

In  the  grass-grown,  silent  churchyard, 

With  a  listless  step  I  rove ; 
And  I  shed  no  tear  of  sorrow 

By  the  graves  of  those  I  love. 

Could  I  weep,  the  spell  might  vanish 
Tears  would  bring  my  heart  relief — 

Heart  so  sealed  to  all  emotion, 
Dead  alike  to  joy  and  grief. 

When  the  storm  that  shook  my  spirit 
Left  its  mission  finished  there, 

Then  a  calm  more  fearful  followed 
Than  the  wildness  of  despair. 

Whence  the  spell  that  chills  my  being 
Bidding  every  passion  cease, 

Closing  every  fount  of  feeling  ? — 
Say,  my  spjrit,  is  it  peace  1 

Wake,  oh  spell-bound  Soul !  awaken — 

Bid  this  sad  delusion  flee: 
Such  a  lengthened  dream  is  fearful : 

Such  a  peace  is  not  for  thee. 

Life  is  thine,  and  "  life  is  earnest," 
Toil  and  grief  thou  canst  not  shun  ; 

But  be  hopeful  and  believing, 
Till  the  prize  of  faith  is  won. 

Then  the  peace  thou  shalt  inherit 
By  the  Savior  promised  free ; 

Peace  the  world  destroyeth  never — 
Father,  give  that  peace  to  me ! 


MARY    A.   H.   DODD. 


231 


THE  DOVE'S  VISIT. 

WHY  dr>  thy  pinions  their  motion  cease  ? 

Wouklst  thou  listen  to  my  sighing? 
Art  thou  come  with  the  olive-branch  of  ^eace '.' 

Thou  dove  to  my  window  flying ! 

Thy  breast  is  white  as  a  snowv  wreath 

And  thine  eye  is  softly  beaming; 
Dost  thou  bear  a  message  thy  win?  beneath, 

For  maid  of  her  lover  dreaming? 

Has  thy  flight  been  far  ?   thy  plumage  gleams, 

Unsoi  ed  and  unworn  with  using : 
Thou  art  mute,  fair  dove,  but  thy  soft  eye  seems 

To  answer  my  id'e  musing. 

Oh,  thou,  thou  hast  been  where  I  fain  would  be, 
Where  my  th oughts  are  ever  straying, 

Where  the  balmiest  breeze  of  spring  blows  free, 
With  the  early  blossoms  playing  ! 

Thou  hast  rested  on  the  casement  white, 
Which  the  lilac-boughs  are  shading, 

Where  I  greeted  the  morning's  rosy  light, 
Or  looked  on  the  sunset  fading. 

Tell  me,  thou  bird  with  the  snowy  breast! 

Of  a  spot  beloved  for  ever, 
Of  the  pleasant  walks  which  my  steps  have  pressed, 

Where  now  they  may  linger  never. 

With  thee  would  I  gladly  hasten  there, 

If  wings  to  my  wish  were  granted,  [care, 

To  tlie  flowers  that  bloomed  'neath  my  mother's 
And  the  trees  my  father  planted. 

For  dearer  the  simplest  blossom  there, 
Its  sweets  to  the  morning  throwing, 

Than  the  choicest  flower  that  perfumes  the  air, 
In  a  kingly  garden  growing. 

Vainly  I  strive  to  restrain  the  tear, 
The  grief  like  a  spring-tide  swelling, 

When  my  thoughts  return  to  the  home  so  dear 
That  is  now  a  stranger's  dwelling. 

And  while  I  turn  me  away  to  weep, 

A  host  of  memories  waken, 
Like  the  circle  spreading  upon  the  deep, 

Or  dropped  from  the  foliage  shaken 

Shou'd  fate,  where  affection  clings  so  strong, 

A  heart  from  its  Eden  banish  7 
Should  it  surfer  a  scene  to  charm  so  long, 

And  then  like  a  vision  vanish  1 

I  read  reproach  in  that  glance  of  thine, 

For  words  of  repining  spoken ; 
When  my  brow  with  the  olive  thou  wouldst  twine, 

I  reject  the  peaceful  token. 

Oh,  how  can  a  heart  be  still  so  weak, 

Though  ever  for  strength  beseeching, 
That  from  each  event  woald  some  lesson  seek, 

And  scorn  not  the  humblest  teaching ! 
Waiting,  and  trustful  like  thee,  sweet  dove, 

To  the  watchful  care  of  Heaven — 
With  unshaken  faith  in  a  Father's  love — 

Be  the  future  wholly  given. 
I  will  bid  my  heart's  vain  yearnings  cease ; 

I  will  hush  this  useless  sighing ; 


Thy  visit  hath  brought  to  my  spirit  peace, 
Thou  dove  to  my  win-low  flying ! 


TWILIGHT. 

THE  sunset  hues  are  fading  fast 
From  the  fair  western  sky  away, 

And  floating  clouds  which  gathered  round 
Have  vanished  with  their  colors  gay. 

All,  save  one  streak  that  lingers  there, 

Retaining  still  a  rosy  hue, 
Bright  at  the  verge,  but  pale  above, 

Soft  blending  with  celestial  blue. 

So  lovely  were  those  brilliant  clouds 

Which  floated  in  the  evening  air, 
It  well  might  seem  that  angel-forms 

Such  fabrics  for  their  robes  would  wear. 
But,  like  the  dreams  that  Fancy  weaves, 

Their  beauty  quickly  passed  away  ; 
And  where  their  gorgeous  tints  were  seen, 

Soft  twilight  reigns  with  shadows  gray. 

One  star,  one  bright  and  quiet  star, 

Kindles  its  steady  light  above, 
Over  the  hushed  and  resting  earth 

Still  watching  like  the  eye  of  Love. 
The  birds  that  woke  such  joyous  strains, 

With  folded  pinions  seek  repose; 
All,  save  the  minstrel  sad  who  sings 

His  plaintive  love-lay  to  the  rose. 

The  weary  bees  have  reached  the  hive. 

Rejoicing  over  labor  done  ; 
And  blossoms  close  their  fragrant  cups, 

Which  opened  to  the  morning  sun. 

The  winds  are  hushed  that  music  made 

The  leafy-laden  boughs  between, 
And  scarce  the  lightest  zephyr's  breath 

IVow  dallies  with  the  foliage  green. 
This  is  the  hour  so  loved  by  all 

Whose  thoughts  are  lingering  with  the  past, 
When  scenes  and  forms  to  memory  dear 

Gather  around  us  dim  and  fast. 
Childhood's  bright  days,  youth's  short  romance, 

And  manhood's  dreams  of  power  and  fame, 
Again  come  back  to  cheat  the  heart 

So  changed  by  time,  yet  still  the  same. 
The  mingling  tones  of  voices  gone 

Are  breathing  round  us  sweet  and  low, 
And  eyes  are  beaming  once  again, 

That  smiled  upon  us  long  ago. 
We  gaze  upon  those  loving  eyes, 

Which  never  coldly  turn  away  ; 
We  clasp  the  hand  and  press  the  lip 

Of  forms  that  but  in  memory  stay. 
We  feel  the  influence  of  a  spell, 

And  wake  to  smiles  or  melt  to  tears, 
As  pass  before  the  dreaming  eye 

The  light  and  shade  of  other  years. 
Oh,  pleasant  is  the  dewy  morn ! 

And  golden  noon  is  fair  to  see 
But  sweeter  far  the  closing  day, 

Dearer  the  twilight  hour  to  me. 


ANNE   C.   BOTTA. 


MRS.  ANNE  CHARLOTTE  BOTTA  is  a  native 
of  Bennington,  in  Vermont.  Her  mother  is 
descended  from  the  Fays  and  Robinsons, 
conspicuous  in  the  early  history  of  that  state, 
and  is  a  daughter  of  Colonel  Gray,  of  the 
Connecticut  line  in  the  Revolutionary  army. 
Her  lather  was  one  of  the  United  Irishmen, 
and  in  that  celebrated  body  there  were  few 
more  heroic  and  constant.  He  was  but  six 
teen  when  he  joined  in  the  rebellion  of  '98, 
ar»d  soon  after  his  arrest,  on  account  of  his 
youth  and  chivalrous  character,  he  was  of 
fered  liberty  and  a  commission  in  the  British 
army  if  he  would  take  the  oath  of  allegiance 
to  the  government.  He  refused,  and  -after 
being  four  years  a  state  prisoner,  was,  at  the 
age  of  twenty,  banished  for  life.  With  Em 
met,  McNeven,  and  others,  he  came  to  Amer 
ica,  where  he  married  ;  and  while  his  daugh 
ter  was  a  child,  he  died  ii>Cuba,  whither  he 
had  gone  in  search  qf  health. 

Mrs.  Botta  was  educated  at  a  popular 
female  seminary  in  Albany,  where  her  class 
compositions  attracted  much  attention  by  a 
strength  and  earnestness  unusual  in  perform 
ances  of  this  description.  She  was  a  loving 
reader  of  Childe  Harold,  and  caught  the  tone 
of  this  immortal  poem,  which  is  echoed  in 
several  of  her  earlier  pieces,  that  still  have 
sufficient  individuality  to  justify  the  expec 
tations  then  formed  of  her  rnaturer  abilities. 
She  soon  outgrew  imitation,  and  her  occa 
sional  contributions  to  literary  journals  be 
came  more  and  more  the  voices  of  her  own 
life  and  nature. 

After  leaving  school,  Mrs.  Botta  passed 
some  time  in  Providence  ;  and  her  knowl 
edge  and  tast«  in  literature  are  illustrated  in 
a  volume  which  she  published  in  that  city, 
in  1841,  under  the  title  of  The  Rhode-Island 
Book  —  a  selection  of  prose  ard  verse  from 
the  writers  of  that  state,  including  several 
fine  poems  of  her  own.  For  five  or  six  years 
she  has  resided  in  New  York,  where  her 
house  is  known  for  the  wo  kly  assemblies 
there  of  persons  ?onnected  vith  literature 


and  the  arts.  1  have  sometimes  attended 
these  agreeable  parties,  and  have  met  at 
them  probably  the  larger  number  of  the  liv 
ing  poets  whose  works  are  reviewed  in  this 
volume,  with  many  distinguished  men  of 
letters,  painters,  sculptors,  singers,  and  am 
ateurs,  among  whom  our  author  is  held  in  as 
much  esteem  for  her  amiable  social  quali 
ties,  as  respect  for  her  intellectual  accom 
plishments. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Botta  are  marked  by 
depth  of  feeling  and  grace  of  expression. 
They  are  the  natural  and  generally  unpre 
meditated  effusions  of  a  nature  extremely 
sensitive,  but  made  strong  by  experience  and 
knowledge,  and  elevated  into  a  divine  repose 
by  the  ever  active  sense  of  beauty.  Though 
for  the  most  part  very  complete,  they  are 
short,  and  in  many  cases  may  be  regarded  as 
improvisations  upon  the  occasions  by  which 
they  were  suggested.  We  have  nothing  in 
them  that  may  be  regarded  as  a  fair  illustra 
tion  of  her  powers. 

The  prose  writings  of  Mrs.  Botta  are 
graceful,  elegant,  and  full  of  fine  reflection. 
They  evince  a  genial  and  hopeful  but  not 
joyous  spirit  —  a  waiting  for  the  fulure  rather 
than  a  satisfaction  with  the  present.  She 
has  a  large  acquaintance  with  literature,  and 
her  criticisms,  scattered  through  many  des 
ultory  compositions,  are  discriminating,  and 
illustrated,  from  a  wide  observation  and  a 
ready  fancy,  with  uniform  judgment  and  taste. 
The  long  chapter  entitled  Leaves  from  the 
Diary  of  a  Reel  use,  in  The  Gift  for  MDCCCXLV, 
is  characteristic  of  her  manner,  while  for  a 
brief  period  it  admits  us  to  the  contemplation 
of  her  life. 

A  collection  of  the  Poems  of  Mrs.  Botta, 
with  engravings  after  original  designs  by  her 
friends  Durand,Huntington,Cheney,Darley, 
Brown,  Cushman,  Rossiter,  Rothermel,  and 
Winner,  appeared  in  1848.  It  is  a  beautiful 
book  of  art,  and  so  demonstrative  of  her  po 
etical  abilities  that  it  will  secure  her  a  posi 
tion  she  has  not  before  occupied  as  an  author 


ANNE    C.   BOTTA. 


233 


THE   IDEAL. 

"  La  vie  est  un  sommeil  1'amour  en  eet  la  reve." 

A  SAD,  sweet  dream !    It  fell  upon  my  soul 
When  song  and  thought  first  woke  their  echoes 

Swaying  my  spirit  to  its  wild  control,  [there, 

And  with  the  shadow  of  a  fond  despair, 

Darkening  the  fountain  of  my  young  life's  stream. 

It  haunts  me  still,  and  yet  I  know  'tis  but  a  dream. 

Whence  art  thou,  shadowy  presence,  that  canst  hide 
From  my  charmed  sight  the  glorious  things  oi 

A  mirage  o'er  life's  desert  dost  thou  glide  1  [earth  .' 
Or  with  those  g'immerings  of  a  former  birth, 

A  "  trailing  cloud  of  glory,"  hast  thou  come  [home  7 

From  some  bright  world  afar,  our  unremembered 

I  know  thou  dwell'st  not  in  this  dull,  cold  Real, 
1  know  thy  home  is  in  some  brighter  sphere ; 

I  know  I  shall  not  meet  thee,  my  Ideal, 
In  the  dark  wanderings  that  await  me  here : 

Why  comes  thy  gentle  image  then,  to  me, 

Wasting  my  night  of  life  in  one  long  dream  of  thee  ] 

The  city's  peopled  solitude,  the  glare 

Of  festal  halls,  moonlight,  and  music's  tone, 
All  breathe  the  sad  refrain — thou  are  not  there  ! 

And  even  with  Nature  I  am  still  alone  : 
With  joy  I  see  her  summer  bloom  depart ; 
I  love  drear  winter's  reign — 't  is  winter  in  my  heart. 
And  if  I  sigh  upon  my  brow  to  see 

The  deep'ning  shadow  of  Time's  restless  wing, 
'T  is  for  the  youth  I  might  not  give  to  thee, 

The  vanished  brightness  of  my  first  sweet  spring; 
That  I  might  give  thee  not  the  joyous  form 
Unworn  by  tears  and  cares,  unblighted  by  the  storm. 

And  when  the  hearts  I  should  be  proud  to  win, 
Breathe,  in  those  tones  that  woman  holds  so  dear, 

Words  of  impassioned  homage  unto  mine, 
Coldly  and  harsh  they  fall  upon  my  ear ; 

And  as  I  listen  to  the  fervent  vow, 

My  weary  heart  replies,  «  Alas  !  it  is  not  thou." 

And  when  the  thoughts  within  my  spirit  glow, 

That  would  outpour  themselves  in  words  of  fire, 
If  some  kind  influence  bade  the  music  flow, 

Like  that  which  woke  the  notes  of  Memnon's  lyre, 
Thou,  sunlight  of  my  life,  wak'st  not  the  lay, 
And  song  within  my  heart,  unuttered,  dies  away. 
Depart,  oh  shadow  !  fatal  dream,  depart ! 

Go!  I  conjure  thee  leave  me  this  poor  life, 
And  I  will  meet  with  firm,  heroic  heart, 

Its  threat'ning  storms  and  its  tumultuous  strife, 
And  with  the  poet-seer  will  see  thee  stand 
To  welcome  my  approach  to  thine  own  spirit-land. 


THE  IDEAL  FOUND. 

I'VE  met  thee,  whom  I  dared  not  hope  to  meet, 
Save  in  th'  enchanted  land  of  my  day  dreams : 

Yes,  in  this  common  world,  this  waking  state, 
Thy  living  presence  on  my  vision  beams — 

Life's  dream  embodied  in  reality  ! 

And  in  thine  eyes  I  read  indifference  to  me ! 

Yes.  in  those  star-like  eyes  I  read  my  fate, 
My  horoscope  is  written  in  their  gaze  ; 


My  "  house  of  life"  henceforth  is  desolate  : 
But  the  dark  aspect  my  firm  heart  surveys, 

Nor  faints  nor  falters  even  for  thy  sake  :    [break  ! 

'T  is  calm  and  nerved  and  strong :  no,  no,  it  shall  not 

For  I  am  of  that  mood  that  will  defy — 
That  does  not  cower  before  the  gathering  storm ; 

That  face  to  face  will  meet  its  destiny, 
And  undismayed  confront  its  darkest  form. 

Wild  energies  awaken  in  this  strife, 

This  conflict  of  the  soul  with  the  grim  phantom  Life. 

But  ah  !  if  thou  hadst  loved  me — had  I  been 

All  to  thy  dreams  that  to  mine  own  thou  art — 
Had  those  dark  eyes  beamed  eloquent  on  mine, 

Pressed  for  one  moment  to  that  noble  heart 
In  the  full  consciousness  of  faith  unspoken, 
Life  could  have  given  no  more — then  had  my  proud 

heart  broken  ! 
The  Alpine  glacier  from  its  height  may  mock 

The  clouds  and  lightnings  of  the  winter  skv, 
And  from  the  tempest  and  the  thunder's  shock 

Gather  new  strength  to  lift  its  summit  high ; 
But  kissed  by  sunbeams  of  the  summer  day, 
It  bows  its  icy  crest  and  weeps  itself  away. 

Thou  know'st  the  fable  of  the  Grecian  maid 

W^ooed  by  the  veiled  immortal  from  the  skies, 
How  in  his  full  perfections,  once  she  prayed, 

That  he  would  stand  before  her  longing  eyes, 
And  how  that  brightness,  too  intense  to  bless,  [cess. 
Consumed  her  o'erwrought  heart  with  its  divine  ex- 
To  me  there  is  a  meaning  in  the  tale. 

I  have  not  prayed  to  meet  thee :  I  can  brook 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  tr  me  that  icy  veil ; 

I  can  give  back  thy  cold  ai.d  careless  look : 
Yet  shrined  within  my  heart,  still  thou  shalt  seem 
W7hat  there  thou  ever  wert,  a  beautiful,  brightdream! 


THE  IMAGE  BROKEN. 

'TWAS  but  a  dream,  a  fond  and  foolish  Jream — 

The  calenture  of  a  delirious  brain, 
Whose  fever-thirst  creates  the  rushing  stream. 

Now  to  the  actual  I  awake  again ; 
The  vision,  to  my  gaze  one  moment  granted, 
Fades  in  its  light  away  and  leaves  me  disenchanted 

The  image  that  my  glowing  fancy  wrought, 
Now  to  the  dust  with  ruthless  hand  I  cast, 

Thus  I  renounce  the  worship  that  I  sought, 
Of  my  own  idol  the  iconoclast. 

The  echo  of  «  Eureka  !  I  have  found  !" 

Falls  back  upon  my  heart  a  vain  and  empty  sound 

Oh,  disembodied  being  of  my  mind, 
So  wildly  loved,  so  fervently  adored  ! 

In  whom  all  high  and  glorious  gifts  I  shrined, 
And  my  heart's  incense  on  the  altar  poured — 

Now  do  I  know  that,  clad  in  mortal  guise, 

Ne'er  on  this  earth  wilt  thou  upon  my  vision  risn 

That  only  in  the  vague,  cold  realm  of  Thought 
Shall  I  meet  thee  whom  here  I  seek  in  vain 

And  like  Egyptian  Isis,  when  she  sought 
The  scattered  fragments  of  Osiris  slain. 


234 


AXXE    C.   BOTTA. 


Now  do  I  know  that  henceforth  I  shall  find 
But  fragments  of  thy  soul  within  earth's  clay  en 
shrined. 
Thou  whom  I  have  not  seen  and  shall  not  see 

Till  the  sad  drama  of  this  life  he  o'er! 
Yet  do  I  not  renounce  my  faith  in  thee : 

Thou  still  art  mine — I  thine  for  evermore ; 
And  this  hi'lief  shall  lie  the  funeral  pyre 
Of  a!l  Kiss  noble  love,  of  all  less  high  desire. 

Here,  like  the  Hindoo  widow,  I  will  bring 
Hope,  youth,  and  all  that  woman  prizes  most — 

The  glow  of  summer  and  the  bloom  of  spring, 
And  on  thine  altar  lay  the  holocaust: 

And,  in  my  faith  exulting,  I  will  see 

The  sacrifice  consume  I  consecrate  to  thee. 

To  Love's  sweet  tones  my  heart  shall  never  thrill ; 

Nor,  as  the  tardy  years  their  circles  roll, 
Shall  they  the  ardor  of  its  pulses  chill. 

Thus  will  I  live  in  widowhood  of  soul, 
Until,  at  last,  my  lingering  exile  o'er, 
Upon  some  lovelier  star,  too  blest,  we  meet  once  more. 
Oh.  tell  me  not  that  now  indeed  I  dream ; 

That  these  aspirings  mocked  at  last  will  be ! 
Gleams  of  a  higher  life  to  me  they  seem — 

A  sacred  pledge  of  immortality. 
Tell  not  the  yearning  heart  it  shall  not  find  :  [kind  ! 
0  Love,  thou  art  too  strong !  O  God,  thou  art  too 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 

THETIS  are  countless  fields  the  green  earth  o'er 

Where  the  verdant  turf  has  been  dyed  with  gore  ; 

Where  hostile  ranks,  in  their  grim  array, 

With  the  battle's  smoke  have  obscured  the  day; 

Where  hate  was  stamped  on  each  rigid  face, 

As  foe  met  foe  in  the  death  embrace; 

Whore  the  groans  of  the  wounded  and  dying  rose, 

Till  the  heart  of  the  listener  with  horror  froze, 

And  the  wide  expanse  of  the  crimsoned  plain 

Was  piled  with  its  heaps  of  uncounted  slain: 

But  a  fiercer  combat,  a  deadlier  strife, 

Ts  that  which  is  waged  in  the  battle  of  life. 

The  hero  that  wars  on  the  tented  field, 
With  his  shining  sword  and  his  burnished  shield, 
Goes  not  alone  with  his  faithful  brand  ; 
Friends  and  comrades  around  him  stand, 
The  trumpets  sound  and  the  war-steeds  neigh 
To  join  in  the  shock  of  the  coming  fray — 
And  he  flies  to  the  onset,  he  charges  the  foe, 
Where  the  bayonets  gleam  and  the  red  tides  flow  ; 
And  be  bears  his  part  in  the  conflict  dire 
With  an  arm  all  nerve  and  a  heart  all  fire. 
What  though  he  fall '  at  the  battle's  close, 
In  the  flush  of  thr  victory  won  he  goes, 
With  martial  music  and  waving  plume, 
From  a  field  of  fame  to  a  laurelled  tomb. 
But  the  hero  who  wars  in  the  battle  of  life, 
Must  st  ind  alone  in  the  fearful  strife ; 
Alone  in  his  weakness  or  strength  must  go. 
Hero  or  craven,  to  meet  the  fo?  : 
He  may  not  fly  on  that  fated  field — 
ffe  must  win  or  lose,  he  must  conquer  or  yield. 

Warrior,  who  comest  to  this  battle  now 


With  a  careless  step  and  a  thoughtless  brow, 
As  if  the  field  were  already  won — 
Pause  and  gird  all  thine  armor  on  ; 
Myriads  have  come  to  this  battle  ground 
With  a  valiant  arm  and  a  name  renowned, 
And  have  fallen  vanquished  to  rise  no  more, 
Ere  the  sun  was  set  or  the  day  half  o'er. 
Dost  thou  bring  with  thee  hither  a  dauntless  will, 
An  ardent  soul  that  no  blast  can  chill  ? 
Thy  shield  of  Faith  hast  thou  tried  and  proved  — 
Canst  thou  say  to  the  mountain,  "  Be  thou  moved  1" 
In  thy  hand  does  the  sword  of  Truth  flame  bright? 
Is  thy  banner  emblazoned, "  For  God  and  the  riu;ht  ]" 
In  the  mia;ht  of  prayer  dost  thou  strive  and  plead  1 
Never  had  warrior  greater  need  ! 
Unseen  foes  in  thy  pathway  hide ; 
Thou  art  encompassed  on  every  side. 
There  Pleasure  waits  with  her  siren  train, 
Her  poison  flowers  and  her  hidden  chain ; 
Hope  with  hei  Dead-sea  fruits  is  there ; 
Sin  is  spreading  her  gilded  snare  ; 
Flattery  counts  with  her  hollow  smiles, 
Passion  ^:th  silvery  tone  beguiles ; 
Love  anJ  Friendship  their  charmed  spells  weave  : 
Trust  not  too  deeply — they  may  deceive  ! 
Disease  with  her  ruthless  hand  would  smite, 
And  Care  spread  o'er  thee  a  wiiucr::^  blight ; 
Hate  and  Envy  with  visage  black, 
And  the  serpent  Slander,  are  on  thy  track. 
Guilt  and  Fa'sehood,  Remorse  and  Pride, 
Doubt  and  Despair,  in  thy  pathway  glide ; 
Haggard  Want  in  her  demon  joy 
Waits  to  degrade  thee  and  then  destroy  ; 
Palsied  Age  in  the  distance  lies, 
And  watches  his  victim  with  ray  less  eyes; 
And  Death  the  insatiate  is  hovering  near, 
To  snatch  from  thy  grasp  all  thou  boldest  dear. 
No  skill  may  avail  and  no  ambush  hide : 
In  the  open  field  must  the  champion  bide, 
And  face  to  face  and  hand  to  hand 
Alone  in  his  valor  confront  that  band. 
•    In  war  with  these  phantoms  that  gird  him  round, 
No  limbs  dissevered  may  strew  the  ground  ; 
No  blood  may  flow,  and  no  mortal  ear 
The  groans  of  the  wounded  heart  may  hear, 
As  it  struggles  and  writhes  in  their  dread  control, 
As  the  iron  enters  the  riven  soul : 
But  the  youthful  form  grows  wasted  and  weak, 
And  sunken  and  wan  is  the  rounded  cheek  ; 
The  brow  is  furrowed,  but  not  with  years ; 
The  eye  is  dimmed  with  its  secret  tears, 
And  streaked  with  white  is  the  raven  hair — 
These  are  the  tokens  of  conflict  there. 

The  battle  is  over :  the  hero  goes, 
Scarred  and  worn,  to  his  last  repose  ,- 
He  has  won  the  day,  he  has  conquered  Doom, 
He  has  sunk  unknown  to  his  nameless  tomb  ; 
For  the  victor's  glory  no  voices  plead  ; 
Fame  has  no  echo  and  earth  no  meed; 
But  the  guardian  angels  are  hovering  near: 
They  have  watched  unseen  o'er  the  conflict  here, 
And  they  bear  him  now  on  their  wings  away 
To  a  realm  of  peace,  to  a  cloudless  day. 
Ended  now  is  the  earthly  strife, 
And  his  brow  is  crowned  with  the  crown  of  life! 


AXNE    C.   BOTTA. 


235 


THOUGHTS  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

SPF.AK  low — tread  softly  through  these  halls; 

tlere  Genius  lives  enshrined  ; 
Here  reign,  in  silent  majesty, 

The  monarchs  of  the  mind. 

A  mighty  spirit-host  they  come, 

From  every  age  and  clime ; 
Above  the  buried  wrecks  of  years, 

They  breast  ihe  tide  of  Time. 

And  in  their  presence-chamber  here 

They  hold  their  regal  state, 
And  round  them  throng  a  noble  train, 

The  gifted  and  the  great. 
Oh,  child  of  Earth !  when  round  thy  path 

The  storms  of  life  arise, 
And  when  thy  brothers  pass  thee  by 

With  stern,  unloving  eyes — 

Here  shall  the  poets  chant  for  thee 

Their  sweetest,  loftiest  lays; 
And  prophets  wait  to  guide  thy  steps 

In  wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 

Come,  with  these  God-anointed  kings 

Be  thou  companion  here; 
And  in  the  mighty  realm  of  mind 

Thou  shall  go  forth  a  peer ! 


HAGAR. 

UXTRODDKX,  drear,  and  lone, 
Stretched  many  a  league  away, 

Beneath  a  burning,  noonday  sun, 
The  Syrian  desert  lay. 

The  scorching  rays  that  beat 

Upon  that  herbless  plain, 
The  dazzling  sands,  with  fiercer  heat, 

Reflected  back  again. 

O'er  that  dry  ocean  strayed 
No  wandering  breath  of  air, 

No  palm-trees  cast  their  cooling  shade, 
No  water  murmured  there. 

And  thither,  bowed  with  shame, 
Spurned  from  her  master's  side, 

The  dark-browed  child  of  Egypt  came 
Her  wo  and  shame  to  hide. 

Drooping  and  travel-worn, 

The  boy  upon  her  hung, 
"Who  from  his  father's  tent  that  morn 

Like  a  gazelle  had  sprung. 

His  ebbing  breath  failed  fast, 
Glazed  was  his  flashing  eye ; 

And  in  that  fearful,  desert  waste, 
She  laid  him  down  to  die. 

But  when,  in  wild  despair, 
*  She  left  him  to  his  lot, 
A.  voice  that  filled  that  breathless  air 
Said,  "  Hagar,  fear  thou  not." 

Then  o'er  the  hot  sands  flowed 

A  cooling,  crystal  stream, 
And  angels  left  their  high  abode 

And  ministered  to  them-. 


Oft,  when  drear  wastes  surround 

My  faltering  footsteps  here, 
I've  thought  I,  too,  heard  that  blest  sound 

Of  "  Wanderer,  do  not  fear." 

And  then,  to  light  my  path 

On  through  the  evil  land, 
Have  the  twin  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 

WTaIked  with  me,  hand  to  hand. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHAXXIXG. 

"  The  prophets,  do  they  live  for  ever?"—  Zecfi.  i.  a. 

THOSE  spirits  God  ordained, 
To  stand  the  watchmen  on  the  outer  wall, 
Upon  whose  souls  the  beams  of  truth  first  fall, 

They  who  reveal  the  ideal,  the  unattained, 
And  to  their  age,  in  stirring  tones  and  high, 
Speak  out  for  God,  truth,  man,  and  liberty — 

Such  prophets,  do  they  die  1 

When  dust  to  dust  returns, 
And  the  freed  spirit  seeks  again  its  God — 
To  those  with  whom  the  blessed  ones  have  trod, 

Are  they  then  lost  1      No  !   still  their  spirit  burns 
And  quickens  in  the  race ;  the  life  they  give, 
Humanity  receives,  and  they  survive 

While  hope  and  virtue  live. 

The  landmarks  of  their  age. 
High-priests,  kings  of  the  realm  of  mind,  are  they 
A  realm  unbounded  as  posterity  ; 

The  hopeful  future  is  their  heritage ; 
Their  words  of  truth,  of  love,  and  faith  sublime, 
To  a  dark  world  of  doubt,  despair,  and  crime, 

Reecho  through  all  time. 

Such  kindling  words  are  thine, 
Thou,  o'er  whose  tomb  the  requiem  soundeth  still, 
Thou  from  whose  lips  the  silvery  tones  yet  thrill 

In  many  a  bosom,  waking  life  divine; 
And  since  thy  Master  to  the  world  gave  token 
That  for  Love's  faith  the  creed  of  Fear  was  broken, 

None  higher  have  been  spoken. 

Thy  reverent  eye  could  see, 
Though  sinful,  weak,  and  wedded  to  the  clod, 
The  angel-soul  still  as  the  child  of  God, 

Heir  of  his  love,  born  to  high  destiny : 
Not  for  thy  country,  creed,  or  sect,  speakest  thou, 
But  him  who  bears  God's  image  on  his  brow, 

Thy  brother,  high  or  low. 

Great  teachers  formed  thy  youth, 
As  thou  didst  stand  upon  triy  native  shore, 
In  the  calm  sunshine,  in  the  ocean's  roar; 

Nature  and  God  spoke  with  thee,  and  the  truth, 
That  o'er  thy  spirit  then  in  radiance  streamed, 
And  in  thy  life  so  calmly,  brightly  beamed, 

Shall  still  shine  on  undirnmed. 

Ages  agone,  like  thee 

The  famed  Greek  with  kindling  aspect  stood, 
And  blent  his  eloquence  witli  wind  and  flood, 

By  the  blue  waters  of  the  JEgean  sea ; 
But  he  heard  not  their  everlasting  hymn  : 
His  lofty  soul  with  Error's  cloud  was  dim, 

And  thy  great  teachers  spake  not  unto  him 


AXXE    C.   BOTTA. 


A  THOUGHT  BY  THE  SEASHORE. 

BURY  me  by  the  sea. 

When  on  my  heart  the  hand  of  Death  is  prest, 
If  the  soul  lingereth  ere  she  join  the  blest, 

And  haunts  awhile  her  clay, 
Then  mid  the  forest  shades  I  would  not  lie, 
For  the  green  leaves  like  me  would  droop  and  die. 

Nor  mid  the  homes  of  men, 
The  haunts  of  busy  life,  would  I  be  laid  : 
There  ever  was  I  lone,  and  my  vexed  shade 

Would  sleep  unquiet  then; 
The  surging  tide  of  life  might  overwhelm 
The  shadowy  boundaries  of  the  silent  realm. 

No  sculptured  marble  pile 
To  bear  my  name  be  reared  upon  my  breast — 
Beneath  its  weight  my  free  sou!  would  not  rest; 

But  let  the  blue  sky  smile, 
The  changeless  stars  look  lovingly  on  me, 
And  let  me  sleep  beside  this  sounding  sea : 

This  ever-beating  heart 

Of  the  great  Universe  !  here  would  the  soul 
Plume  her  soiled  pinions  for  the  final  goal, 

Ere  she  shou'd  thence  depart — 
Here  wou'd  she  fit  her  for  the  high  abode — 
Here  by  the  sea,  she  wou'd  be  nearer  God. 

I  feel  his  presence  now : 
Thou  mightiest  of  his  vassals,  as  I  stand 
And  watch  beside  thee  on  the  sparkling  sand, 

Thy  crested  billows  bow  ; 

And  as  thy  solemn  chant  swells  through  the  air, 
My  spirit,  awed,  joins  in  thy  ceaseless  prayer. 

Life's  fitful  fever  o'er, 
Here  then  would  I  repose,  majestic  sea ; 
E'en  now  faint  glimpses  of  eternity 

Come  o'er  me  on  thy  shore : 
My  thoughts  from  thee  to  highest  themes  are  given, 
As  thy  deep  distant  blue  is  lost  in  Heaven. 


THE   DUMB  CREATION. 

DEAL  kindly  with  those  speechless  ones, 

That  throng  our  gladsome  earth ; 
Say  not  the  bounteous  gift  of  life 

Alone  is  nothing  worth. 
What  though  with  mournful  memories 

They  sigh  not  for  the  past  1 
What  though  their  ever  joyous  Now 

No  future  overcast  1 
No  aspirations  fill  their  breast 

With  longings  undefined  ; 
They  live,  they  love,  and  they  are  blest, 

For  what  they  seek  they  find. 
They  see  no  mystery  in  the  stars, 

No  wonder  in  the  plain, 
And  Life's  enigma  wakes  in  them 

No  questions  dark  and  vain. 
To  them  earth  is  a  final  home, 

A  bright  and  blest  abode  ; 
Their  lives  unconsciously  flow  on 

In  harmony  with  God. 
To  this  fair  world  our  human  hearts 

Their  hopes  and  longings  bring, 


And  o'er  its  beauty  and  its  bloom 
Their  own  dark  shadows  fling. 

Between  the  future  and  the  past 

In  wild  unrest  we  stand, 
And  ever  as  our  feet  advance, 

Retreats  the  promised  land. 

And  though  Love,  Fame,  and  Wealth  and  Power, 

Bind  in  their  gilded  band, 
We  pine  to  grasp  the  unattained — 

The  something  still  beyond. 

And,  beating  on  their  prison  bars, 

Our  spirits  ask  more  room, 
And  with  unanswered  questionings, 

They  pierce  beyond  the  tomb. 

Then  say  thou  not,  oh,  doubtful  heart ! 

There  is  no  life  to  come : 
That  in  some  tearless,  cloudless  land, 

Thou  shalt  not  find  thy  home. 


THE  WOUNDED  VULTURE. 

A  KIXGLY  vulture  sat  alone, 

Lord  of  the  ruin  round, 
Where  Egypt's  ancient  monuments 

Upon  the  desert  frowned. 
A  hunter's  eager  eye  had  marked 

The  form  of  that  proud  bird, 
And  through  the  voiceless  solitude 

His  ringing  shot  was  heard. 
It  rent  that  vulture's  plumed  breast, 

Aimed  with  unerring  hand, 
And  his  life-blood  gushed  warm  and  red 

Upon  the  yellow  sand. 
No  struggle  marked  the  deadly  wound, 

He  gave  no  piercing  cry, 
But  calmly  spread  his  giant  wings, 

And  sought  the  upper  sky. 
In  vain  with  swift  pursuing  shot 

The  hunter  seeks  his  prey, 
Circling  and  circling  upward  still 

On  his  majestic  way. 
Up  to  the  blue  empyrean 

He  wings  his  steady  flight, 
Till  his  receding  form  is  lost 

In  the  full  flood  of  light. 
Oh,  wounded  heart !  oh,  suffering  soul ! 

Sit  not  with  folded  wing, 
Where  broken  dreams  and  ruined  hopes 

Their  mournful  shadows  fling. 
Outspread  thy  pinions  like  that  bird, 

Take  thou  the  path  sublime, 
Beyong  the  flying  shafts  of  Fate, 

Beyond  the  wounds  of  Time. 
Mount  upward  !  brave  the  clouds  and  storms? 

Above  life's  desert  plain 
There  is  a  calmer,  purer  air, 

A  heaven  thou,  too,  may'st  gain. 
And  as  that  dim,  ascending  form 

Was  lost  in  day's  broad  light, 
So  shall  thine  earthly  sorrrows  fade, 

Lost  in  the  Infinite. 


ANNE    C.   BOTTA. 


EROS. 

As  when,  untaught  and  blind, 
To  the  mute  stone  the  pagan  bows  his  knee, 
Spirit  of  Love,  phantom  of  my  own  mind, 

So  have  I  worshipped  thee  ! 

When  first  a  laughing  child, 
I  gazed  on  Nature  with  a  wondering  eye, 
I  learned  of  her,  in  calm  and  tempest  wild, 

This  thirst  for  sympathy. 

I  saw  the  flowers  appear, 
And  spread  their  petals  out  to  meet  the  sun, 
The  dewdrops  on  their  glistening  leaves  draw  near 

And  mingle  into  one. 

And  if  a  harp  was  stirred 
By  the  soft  pulses  of  some  wandering  sound, 
Attuned  to  the  same  key,  then  I  have  heard 

Its  chords  untouched  respond. 

Fast  through  the  vaulted  sky, 
Giving  no  sound  or  light,  when  storms  were  loud, 
I  saw  the  electric  cloud  in  silence  fly, 

Seeking  its  sister  cloud. 

I  saw  the  winds,  and  sea, 
And  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  in  bright  array, 
Governed  by  this  sweet  law  of  sympathy, 

Roll  on  their  destined  way. 

And  then  my  spirit  pined, 
And,  like  the  sea-shell  for  its  parent  sea, 
Moaned  for  those  kindred  souls  it  could  not  find, 

And  panted  to  be  free. 

And  then  came  wild  Despair, 
And  laid  her  palsying  hand  upon  my  soul, 
And  her  dread  ministers  were  with  her  there — 

The  dagger  and  the  bowl- 

O  God  of  life  and  light, 

Thou  who  didst  stay  my  hand  in  that  dread  hour, 
Thou  who  didst  save  me  in  that  fearful  night 

Of  maddening  Passion's  power — 

Before  thv  throne  I  bow  : 

I  tear  my  worshipped  idols  from  their  shrine;* 
I  give  to  thee,  though  bruised  and  aching  now, 

This  heart — oh  !  make  it  thine. 

I've  sought  to  fill  in  vain 
Its  lonely,  silent  depths  with  human  love : 
Help  me  to  cast  away  each  earthly  chain, 

And  rise  to  thee  above. 


TO ,  IX  OBSCURITY. 

IN-  full-orbed  splendor  now  the  queen  of  Night 
Among  the  stars  walks  in  her  pride  of  place, 

And  now  again  we  miss  that  flood  of  light 
That  overflowed  the  azure  fields  of  space. 

But  though  her  brightness  meets  no  more  the  gaze, 
As  in  her  wonted  orbit  she  declines, 

iret  not  extinguished  are  her  silver  rays — 
She  shines  in  shadow,  but  not  less  she  shines. 

Soon  will  she  rise  again  upon  the  sight, 

Passing  the  darkened  shape  that  bids  her  wane  ; 

Then  shall  we  see  her,  in  unclouded  light, 
T^k  ;  her  own  place  among  the  stirs  again. 


ON  A  PICTURE   OF  HARVEY  BIRCH. 

FROM  COOPER'S  "STY." 

I  KNOW  not  if  thy  noble  worth 

My  country's  annals  claim, 
For  in  her  brief,  bright  history 

I  have  not  read  thy  name. 

I  know  not  if  thou  e'er  didst  live, 

Save  in  the  vivid  thought 
Of  him  who  chronicled  thy  life,     . 

With  silent  suffering  fraught. 

Yet  in  thy  history  I  see 

Full  many  a  great  soul's'  lot, 
Who  joins  that  martyr-army's  ranks, 

That  the  world  knoweth  not ; 

Who  can  not  weep  "  melodious  tears" 

For  fame  or  sympathy, 
But  who  in  silence  bear  their  doom 

To  suffer  and  to  die ; 

For  whom  no  poet's  harp  is  struck, 

No  laurel  wreath  is  twined ; 
Who  pass  unheard,  unknown  away, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind  ; 

Who,  but  for  their  unwavering  trust 

In  Justice,  Truth,  and  God. 
Would  faint  upon  their  weary  way, 

And  perish  by  the  road. 

Truth,  Justice,  God  !  oh,  mighty  faith, 

To  bear  us  up  unharmed  ; 
The  gates  of  hell  may  not  prevail 

Against  a  soul  so  armed. 


TO 


-,  WITH  FLOWERS. 


Go,  ye  sweet  messengers, 

To  that  dim-lighted  room, 
Where  lettered  wisdom  from  the  walls 
Sheds  a  delightful  gloom  ; 

Where  sits  in  thought  profound 

One  in  the  noon  of  life, 
Whose  flashing  eye  and  fevered  brovr 
Tell  of  the  inward  strife ; 

Who  in  those  wells  of  lore 

Seeks  for  the  pearls  of  truth, 
And  to  Ambition's  fever  dream 
Gives  his  repose  and  youth. 

To  him,  sweet  ministers, 

Ye  shall  a  lesson  teach  ; 
Go  in  your  fleeting  loveliness, 
More  eloquent  than  speech. 

Tell  him  in  laurel  wreaths 

No  perfume  e'er  is  found, 
And  that  upon  a  crown  of  thorns 
Those  leaves  are  ever  bound. 

Thoughts  fresh  as  your  own  hues 

Bear  ye  to  that  abode — 
Speak  of  the  sunshine  and  the  sky, 
Of  Nature  and  of  God. 


ANNE    C.   BOTTA. 


SONNETS. 

I.    LOVE. 

Go  forth  in  life,  oh,  friend  !  not  seeking  love, 
A  mendicant  that  with  imploring  eye 
And  outstretched  hand  asks  of  the  passers-by 

The  alms  his  strong  necessities  may  move. 

For  such  poor  love,  to  pity  near  allied, 
Thy  generous  spirit  may  not  stoop  and  wait, 

A  suppliant  whose  prayer  may  be  denied 
Like  a  spurned  beggar's  at  a  palace-gate : 

But  thy  heart's  affluence  lavish  uncontrolled — 
'1  he  largess  of  thy  love  give  full  and  free, 

As  monarchs  in  their  progress  scatter  gold  ; 
And  be  thy  Iv.-art  like  the  exhaust  ess  sea, 

That  must  its  wealth  of  c!oud  and  dew.bestow, 

Though  tributary  streams  or  ebb  or  flow. 

II.    THE     LAKE     AND     STAR. 

THE  mountain  lake,  o'ershadowed  by  the  hills, 
May  still  gaze  heavenward  on  the  evening  star 

Whose  distant  light  its  dark  recesses  fills, 
Though  boundless  distance  must  divide  them  far; 

Still  may  the  lake  the  star's  bright  image  bear, 
Sti.I  may  the  star  from  its  b'ue  ether  dome 
Shower  down  its  silver  beams  across  the  gloom, 

And  light  the  wave  that  wanders  darkly  there. 

Star  of  my  life  !  thus  do  I  turn  to  thee 
Amid  the  shadows  that  above  me  roll ; 

Thus  from  thy  distant  sphere  thou  shinest  on  me, 
Thus  does  thine  image  float  upon  my  soul, 

Through  the  wide  space  that  must  our  lives  dissever 

Far  as  the  lake  and  star,  ah  me,  for  ever ! 

III.    A    II  KM  EM  BR  AST  E. 

Ps  LOHT  closes  round  me,  and  wild  threatening  forms 
Clasp  me  with  icy  arms  and  chain  me  down, 
And  bind  upon  my  brow  a  cypress  crown 
Dewy  with  tears,  and  Heaven  frowns  dark  with 
But  the  one  glorious  memory  of  thee       [storms : 
Rises  upon  my  path  to  guide  and  bless, 
The  bright  Shekinah  of  the  wilderness — 
The  po'ar  star  upon  a  trackless  soa, 
The  beaming  Pharos  of  the  unreached  shore — 
It  spans  the  clouds  that  gather  o'er  my  way, 
The  rainbow  of  my  life's  tempestuous  day. 
Oh,  bless  d  thought !  stay  with  me  evermore, 
And  shed  thy  lustrous  beams  where  midnight  glooms, 
As  fragatit  lamps  burned  in  the  ancient  tombs. 


IV.     THE    SUN     AND    STREAM. 

As  some  dark  stream  within  a. cavern's  breast 
Flows  murmuring,  moaning  for  the  distant  sun, 

So  ere  I  met  thee,  murmuring  its  unrest, 
Did  my  life's  current  coldly,  darkly  run. 

And  as  that  stream  beneath  the  sun's  full  gaze 
Its  separate  course  and  life  no  more  maintains, 
But  now  absorbed,  transfused  far  o'er  the  plains, 

It  floats  ethereulized  in  those  warm  rays, 
So  in  the  sunlight  of  thy  fervid  love 

My  heart,  so  long  to  earth's  dark  channels  given, 
Now  soars  all  pain,  all  i  1,  all  doubt  above, 

And  breathes  the  ether  of  the  upper  heaven : 

So  tliy  hi_!;h  spirit  holds  arid  governs  mine, 

So  is  my  lift,  my  being  lost  in  thine  , 


V.    TO  . 

AH  no  !  my  love  knows  no  vain  jealousy : 
The  rose  that  blooms  and  lives  but  in  the  sun, 
Asks  not  what  other  flowers  he  shines  upon, 

If  he  but  shine  on  her.     Enough  for  me 
Thus  in  thy  light  to  dwell,  and  thus  to  share 
The  sunshine  of  thy  smile  with  all  things  fair 

I  know  thou  'rt  vowed  to  Beauty,  not  to  Love : 
I  would  not  stay  thy  footsteps  from  one  shrine, 
Nor  would  I  bind  thee  by  a  sigh  to  mine. 

For  me — I  have  no  lingering  wish  to  rove ; 
For  though  I  worship  all  things  fair,  like  thee, 
Of  outward  grace,  of  soul-nobility, 

Happier  than  thou,  I  find  them  all  in  one, 

And  I  would  worship  at  thy  shrine  alone ! 

VI.    THE     HONEY-BEE. 

THE  honey-bee  that  wanders  a'l  day  long 
The  field,  the  woodland,  and  the  garden  o'er, 
To  g  ither  in  his  fragrant  winter  store, 
Humming  in  calm  content  his  quiet  song, 
Seeks  not  alone  the  rose's  glowing  breast, 
The  lily's  dainty  cup,  the  violet's  lips — 
But  from  all  rank  and  noxious  weeds  he  sips 
The  single  drop  of  sweetness  closely  prest 
Within  the  poison  chalice.     Thus  if  we 
Seek  only  to  draw  forth  the  hidden  sweet 
In  all  the  varied  human  flowers  we  meet, 
In  the  wide  garden  of  humanitv, 
And,  like  the  bee,  if  home  the  spoil  we  bear, 
Hived  in  our  hearts  it  turns  the  nectar  there. 


VII.    ASPIRATION. 

THE  planted  seed,  consigned  to  common  earth, 
Disdains  to  moulder  with  the  baser  clay, 
But  rises  up  to  meet  the  light  of  day, 
Spreads  all  its  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  tendrils  forth 

And,  bathed  and  ripened  in  the  genial  ray, 
Pours  out  its  perfume  on  the  wandering  gales, 
Till  in  that  fragrant  breath  its  life  exhales. 
So  this  immortal  germ  within  my  breast 
Wou'd  strive  to  pierce  the  du'l,  dark  clod  of  sense  , 
With  aspirations,  wing  d  and  intense, 
Would  so  stretch  upward,  in  its  tireless  quest, 
To  meet  the  Central  Soul,  its  source,  its  rest : 
So  in  the  fragrance  of  the  immortal  flower,  [pour 
High  thoughts  and  noble  deeds,  its  life  it  would  out- 


VITI.    TO    THE    SAVIOR. 

OH  thou  who  once  on  earth,  beneath  the  weight 
Of  our  mortality  didst  live  and  move, 
The  in  •  irnation  of  profoundest  love  ; 

Who  on  t'.ie  Cross  that  love  didst  consummate— 
Whose  deep  and  ample  fulness  could  embrace 
The  poorest,  meanest  of  our  fallen  race  : 

How  shall  we  e'er  that  boundless  debt  repay  ? 
Bv  long  loud  prayers  in  gorgeous  temples  said  ? 
By  rich  ob'ations  on  thine  a',  tars  laid  1 

Ah,  no  !  not  thus  thou  didst  appoint  the  way: 
When  thou  wast  bowed  our  human  wo  beneath, 
Then  as  a  legacy  thou  didst  bequeath 

Earth's  sorrowing  children  to  our  ministry — 

And  as  we  do  to  them,  we  do  to  thee. 


ANNE    C.   BOTTA. 


IX.    FAITH. 

SECURELY  cahinod  in  the  ship  below,  [sea, 

Through  darkness  and  through  storm  I  cross  the 
A  path  ess  wilderness  of  waves  to  me : 

But  yet  I  do  not  fear,  because  I  know 
That  he  who  guides  the  good  ship  o'er  that  waste 
Sees  in  the  stars  her  shining  pathway  traced. 

Blindfold  I  walk  this  life's  bewildering  maze, 
Up  flinty  steep,  through  frozen  mountain  pass, 
Through  thornset  barren  and  through  deep  morass, 

But  strong  in  faith  I  tread  the  uneven  ways, 
And  bare  my  head  unshrinking  to  the  b:ast, 
Because  my  Father's  arm  is  round  me  cast ; 

And  if  the  way  seems  rough,  I  only  clasp 

The  hand  that  leads  me  with  a  firmer  grasp. 


BONKS  IN  THE  DESERT. 

WHERE  pilgrims  seek  the  Prophet's  toml 

Across  the  Arabian  waste, 
Upon  the  ever-shifting  sands 

A  fearful  path  is  traced. 
Far  up  to  the  horizon's  verge, 

The  traveller  sees  it  rise — 
A  line  of  ghastly  bones  that  bleach 

Beneath  those  burning  skies. 
Across  it,  tempest  and  simoom 

The  desert-sands  have  strewed, 
But  still  that  line  of  spectral  white 

For  ever  is  renewed. 
For  while  along  that  burning  track 

The  caravans  'nove  on, 
Still  do  the  wayworn  pilgrims  fall 

Ere  ypt  the  shrine  be  won. 
There  the  tired  camel  lays  him  down 

And  shuts  his  gentle  eves ; 
And  there  the  fiery  rider  droops, 

Toward  Mecca  looks,  and  dies. 
They  fall  unheeded  from  the  ranks  : 

On  sweeps  the  endless  train ; 
But  there,  to  mark  the  desert  path, 

Their  whitening  bones  remain. 
As  thus  I  read  the  mournful  tale 

Upon  the  traveller's  page, 
I  thought  how  like  the  march  of  life 

Is  this  sad  pilgrimage. 

For  every  heart  hath  some  fair  dream, 

Some  object  unattained, 
And  far  off  in  the  distance  lies 

Some  Mecca  to  be  gained. 

But  beauty,  manhood,  love,  and  power, 

Go  in  their  morning  down, 
And  longing  eyes  and  outstretched  arms 

Tell  of  the  goal  unvvon. 

The  mighty  caravan  of  life 
Above  their  dust  may  sweep, 

Nor  shout  nor  tramp'ing  feet  shall  break 
The  rest  of  those  who  sleep. 

Oh,  fountains  that  I  have  not  reached, 

That  gush  far  off  e'en  now, 
When  shall  I  quench  my  spirit's  thirst 

Where  your  sweet  waters  flow  ! 


Oh,  Mecca  of  my  lifelong  dreams, 

Cloud  palaces  that  rise 
In  that  far  distance  pierced  by  hope, 

When  will  ye  greet  mine  eyes ! 
The  shadows  lengthen  toward  the  east 

From  the  declining  sun, 
And  the  pilgrim,  as  ye  still  recede, 

Sighs  for  the  journey  done  ! 

CHRIST  BETRAYED. 

EIGHTEEN  hundred  years  agone 
Was  that  deed  of  darkness  done — 
Was  that  sacred,  thorn-crowned  head 
To  a  shameful  death  betrayed, 
And  Iscariot's  traitor  name 
Blazoned  in  eternal  shame. 
Thou,  disciple  of  our  time, 
Follower  of  the  faith  sublime, 
WTho  with  high  and  holy  scorn 
Of  that  traitorous  deed  dost  burn, 
Though  the  years  may  never  more 
To  our  earth  that  form  restore, 
The  Christ-Spirit  ever  lives — 
Ever  in  thy  heart  he  strives. 
WThen  pale  Misery  mutely  calls, 
When  thy  tempted  brother  falls, 
When  thy  gentle  words  may  chain 
Hate,  and  Anger,  and  Disdain, 
Or  thy  loving  smile  impart 
Courage  to  some  sinking  heart : 
When  within  thy  troubled  breast 
Good  and  evil  thoughts  contest, 
Though  unconscious  thou  may'st  be. 
The  Christ-Spirit  strives  with  thee. 

When  he  trod  the  Holy  Land, 
With  his  small  disciple  band, 
And  the  fated  hour  had  come 
For  that  august  martyrdom — 
When  the  man,  the  human  love, 
And  the  God  within  him  strove — 
As  in  Gethsemane  he  wept, 
They,  the  faithless  watchers,  slept : 
WThile  for  them  he  wept  and  prayed, 
One  denied  and  one  betrayed  ! 

If  to-day  thou  turn'st  aside 
In  thy  luxury  and  pride, 
Wrapped  within  thyself  and  blind 
To  the  sorrows  of  thy  kind, 
Thou  a  faithless  watch  dost  keep — 
Thou  art  one  of  those  who  sleep; 
Or,  if  waking  thou  dost  see 
Nothing  of  Divinity 
In  our  fallen,  struggling  race — 
If  in  them  thou  seest  no  trace 
Of  a  glory  dimmed,  not  gone, 
Of  a  Future  to  be  won, 
Of  a  Future,  hopeful,  high, 
Thou,  like  Peter,  dost  deny  : 
But  if,  seeing,  thou  believest, 
If  the  Evangel  thou  receivest, 
Yet,  if  thou  art  bound  to  Sin, 
False  to  the  Ideal  within, 
Slave  of  Ease  or  slave  of  Gold, 
Thou  the  Son  of  God  hast  sold  ! 


SMO 


AXXE    C.   BOTTA. 


THE   WASTED  FOUNTAINS. 

And  their  nobles  have  sent  their  htlle  ones  to  tlie  waters;  they  rame 
to  the  nits  and  ibiind  no  wnter;  they  returned  with  their  vessels 
empty.  — Jtremiult  xiv.  3. 

WHEX  the  youthful  fever  of  the  soul 

Is  awakened  in  thee  first, 
And  thou  goest  like  Judah's  children  forth 

To  s!ake  tlie  burning  thirst; 

And  when  dry  and  wasted,  like  the  springs 

Sought  by  that  little  band, 
Before  thee  in  their  emptiness 

Life's  broken  cisterns  stand  ; 

When  the  golden  fruits  that  tempted 

7  urn  to  ashes  on  the  taste, 
And  thine  early  visions  fade  and  pass 

Like  the  mirage  of  the  waste ; 

When  faith  darkens  and  hopes  vanish 

In  the  shade  of  coming  years, 
And  the  urn  thou  bearest  is  empty, 

Or  o'erflovving  with  thy  tears ; 

Though  the  transient  springs  have  failed  thee, 
Though  the  founts  of  youth  are  dried, 

Wilt  thou  among  the  mouldering  stones 
In  weariness  abide  1 

Wilt  thou  sit  among  the  ruins, 

With  all  words  of  cheer  unspoken, 

Till  the  silver  cord  is  loosened, 
Till  the  golden  bowl  is  broken  7 

Up  and  onward  !  toward  the  east 

Green  oases  thou  shalt  find — 
Streams  that  rise  from  higher  sources 

Than  the  pools  thou  leavest  behind. 

Life  has  import  more  inspiring 

Than  the  fancies  of  thy  youth ; 
It  has  hopes  as  high  as  heaven ; 

It  has  labor,  it  has  truth  ; 

It  has  wrongs  that  may  be  righted, 

Noble  deeds  that  may  be  done, 
Its  great  battles  are  unfought, 

Its  great  triumphs  are  unwon. 

Therf  is  rising  from  its  troubled  deeps 

A  low,  unceasing  moan  ; 
There  are  aching,  there  are  breaking 

Other  hearts  beside  thine  own. 

From  strong  limbs  that  should  be  chainless, 

There  are  fetters  to  unbind  ; 
There  are  words  to  raise  the  fallen; 

There  is  light  to  give  the  blind ; 

There  are  crushed  and  broken  spirits 

That  electric  thoughts  may  thrill; 
Lofty  dreams  to  be  embodied 

By  the  might  of  one  strong  will. 

There  are  God  and  peace  above  thee  : 

Wilt  thou  languish  in  despair  1 
Tread  thy  griefs  beneath  thy  feet, 

Scale  the  walls  of  heaven  by  prayer  - 


'T  is  the  key  of  the  apostle 

That  opens  heaven  from  below ; 

'Tis  the  ladder  of  the  patriarch, 
Whereon  angels  come  and  go ! 


PAUL  PREACHING  AT  ATHENS 

GREECE  !  hear  that  joyful  sound  ! 
A  stranger's  voice  upon  thy  sacred  hill, 
Whose  tones  shall  bid  the  slumbering  nations  roun  1 

Wake  with  convulsive  thrill. 
Athenians  !  gather  there,  he  brings  you  words 
Brighter  than  all  your  boasted  lore  affords. 

He  brings  you  news  of  One 
Above  Olympian  Jove;  One  in  whose  light 
Your  gods  shall  fade  like  stars  before  the  sun. 

On  your  bewildered  night 

That  UNKNOWN  GOD  of  whom  ye  darkly  drearr 
In  all  his  burning  radiance  shall  beam. 

Behold,  he  bids  you  rise 

From  your  dark  worship  round  that  idol  shrine ; 
He  points  to  Him  who  reared  your  starry  skies, 

And  bade  your  Phoebus  shine. 
Lift  up  your  souls  from  where  in  dust  ye  how  ; 
That  God  of  gods  commands  your  homage  now. 

But,  brighter  tidings  still ! 

He  tells  of  One  whose  precious  blood  was  spilt 
In  lavish  streams  upon  Judea's  hill, 

A  ransom  for  your  guilt ; 

Who  triumphed  o'er  the  grave,  and  br^>ke  its  chain  ; 
Who  conquered  Death  and  Hell,  and  rose  again. 

Sages  of  Greece  !  come  near ; 
Spirits  of  daring  thought  and  giant  mould, 
Ye  questioners  of  Time  and  Nature,  hear 

Mysteries  before  untold  ! 
Immortal  life  revealed !  light  for  which  ye 
Have  tasked  in  vain  your  proud  philosophy. 

Searchers  for  some  First  Cause 
Through  doubt  and  darkness — lo !  he  points  to  One 
Where  all  your  vaunted  reason  lost  must  pause, 

Too  vast  to  think  upon  : 
That  was  from  everlasting — that  shall  be 
To  everlasting  still,  eternally  ! 

Ye  followers  of  him 
Who  deemed  his  soul  a  spark  of  Deity ! 
Your  fancies  fade — your  master's  dreams  grow 

To  this  reality. 

Stoic !  unbend  that  brow,  drink  in  that  sound. 
Skeptic !  dispel  those  doubts,  the  truth  is  found. 

Greece  !  though  thy  sculptured  wa'Is 
Have  with  thy  triumphs  and  thy  glories  rung, 
And  through  thy  temples  and  thy  pillared  halls 

Immortal  poets  sung — 

No  sounds  like  these  have  rent  your  startled  air : 
They  open  realms  of  light  and  bid  you  enter  there. 


EMILY    JUDSON. 


(Born  1817-Died  1854). 


Miss  EMILY  CHUBBUCK,  who  under  the 
graceful  pseuclonyme  of '  Fanny  Forester' be 
came  known  as  one  of  the  most  ingenious  and 
brilliant  female  writers  of  the  country,  is  a 
native  of  central  New  York  ;  and  af  er  being 
thoroughly  educated  in  the  sciences  suitable 
to  her  sex,  and  making  herself  familiar  with 
the  best  literature  by  a  loving  and  critical 
study  of  those  au:hors  who  are  the  standards 
of  thought  a;id  diction,  she  became  a  teacher 
in  a  female  seminary  at  Utica,  where  she  was 
residing  when  she  made  her  first  essays  as  a 
writer  —  some  poetical  contributions  to  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  and  several  small 
volumes  illustrative  of  practical  religion,  is 
sued  by  the  American  Baptist  Publication  So- 
cie  y.  Early  in  June,  1844,  while  visiting 
the  ci:y  of  New  York,  she  wrote  a  hasty 
baga.elle  for  the  New  Mirror,  then  recent 
ly  established  by  Gen.  Morris  and  Mr.  N.  P. 
Willis,  scarcely  thinking  or  caring  that  it 
would  for  a  moment  receive  their  attention. 
But  Mr.  Willis's  perception  of  beauty  is  in- 
stinc  ive:  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  his  corre 
spondent  was  possessed  of  extreme  clever- 
ne:>s —  perhaps  of  genius  —  and  his  liberal 
bir  perfecjy  sincere  applause  led  Miss  Chub- 
buc'c  to  thai  career  of  literature  which  soon 
made  her  no  in  de  plume  as  familiar  as  the 
names  of  the  most  popular  authors.  The 
first  paper  under  the  signature  of  "  Fanny 
Fores  er"  was  published  on  ihe  twenty-ninth 
of  June  in  the  New  Mirror,  and  it  was  fol 
lowed  rapidly  by  all  those  sketches,  essays, 
and  poems,  which,  two  years  af  erward,  when 
she  was  on  the  eve  of  sailing  for  India,  were 
reprinted  under  the  title  of  Alderbrook. 

In  184b',  the  missionary  Judson  —  after  a 
long  career  of  usefulness  and  true  glory  in 
the  East  —  returned  to  America,  where  he 
was  received  by  the  churches  in  a  manner 
worthy  of  the  greatness  of  his  services  to  re 
ligion  and  civilization.  "  Fanny  Forester," 
on  account  of  impaired  health,  sought  the  ge 
nial  climate  of  Philadelphia  for  the  succeed 
ing  winter,  and  here  he  came  to  visit  her  and 
persuade  her  to  write  the  mortal  history  of 
one  who  had  joined  the  angels,  leaving  him 

16 


alone  in  the  ship  m  which  they  had  started  to 
gether  to  revisit  their  native  country.  When 
the  apostle  of  theBurmans  described  in  sen 
tences  glowing  with  his  fine  enthusiasm,  the 
condition  of  the  missionary  field,  white  with 
the  harvests  which  so  few  were  reaping,  she 
kindled  at  the  recital,  and  forgetting  the  bril 
liant  prospects  of  success  in  letters,  the  dear 
est  ties  of  home  affections,  determined  to 
twine  for  the  laurel  which  she  cast  aside,  a 
wreath  from  these  fields  in  the  Orient,  the 
grains  in  which  should  be  stars  to  circle  her 
brows  forever,  and  by  their  radiance  to  make 
more  glorious  the  looked-for  triumph  of  the 
Harvester  of  the  world. 

Early  in  the  spring  she  returned  to  the 
home  of  her  childhood,  to  bid  a  last  farewell 
to  all  its  inmates.  Then  she  wrote  —  "My 
heart  is  heavy  with  sorrow.  The  cup  at  my 
lips  is  very  bitter.  Heaven  help  me  !  White 
hairs  are  bending  in  submissive  grief,  and 
age-dimmed  eyes  are  dimmer  with  tears  ; 
young  spirits  have  lost  their  joyousness, 
young  lips  forget  to  smile,  and  bounding 
hearts  and  bounding  feet  are  stilled.  Oh, 
the  rending  of  ties,  knitted  at  the  first  open 
ing  of  the  infant  eye,  and  strengthened  by 
numberless  acts  of  love,  is  a  sorrowful  thing  ! 
To  make  the  grave  the  only  door  to  a  meet 
ing  with  those  in  whose  bosoms  we  nestled, 
in  whose  hearts  we  trusted  long  before  we 
knew  how  precious  was  such  love  and  trust, 
brings  wilh  it  an  overpowering  weight  of 
solemnity.  But  a  grave  is  yawning  for  each 
one  of  us;  and  is  it  much  to  choose  whether 
we  sever  the  tie  that  binds  us  here  to-dav,  or 
lie  down  on  the  morrow  ?  Ah,  the  '  weaver's 
shuttle'  is  flying  ;  the  '  flower  of  the  grass'  is 
withering;  the  space  is  almost  measured; 
the  tale  nearly  told  ;  the  dark  valley  is  close 
before  us  —  tread  we  with  care  !  My  mother 
we  may  neither  of  us  close  the  other's  dark 
ened  eyes,  and  fold  the  cold  hands  upon  the 
bosom  ;  we  may  neither  of  us  watch,  the  soJ 
greening  and  withering  above  the  other's 
ashes:  but  there  are  duties  for  us  even  more 
sacred  than  these.  But  a  few  steps,  mothei 
—  difficult  the  path  may  be,  but  very  bri<rhi 

241 


212 


EMILY    JUDSON. 


—  and  then  we  put  on  the  rohe  of  immortali 
ty,  and  meet  to  part  never  more.  And  we 
shall  not  be  apart  even  on  earih.  There  is 
an  electric  chain  passing  from  heart  to  heart 
through  the  throne  of  the  Eternal,  and  we 
may  k<-q>  its  links  all  brightly  burnished  by 
the  breath  of  prayer.  Still  pray  for  me, 
mother,  as  in  days  gone  by.  Thou  bidst  rne 
iro.  The  smile  comes  again  to  thy  lip,  and 
ihe  light  to  thine  eye,  fur  thou  hast  pleasure 
ia  the  sacrifice.  Thy  blessing !  Farewell, 
my  mother,  and  ye  loved  ones  of  the  same 
hearthstone!" 

She  was  married  to  Dr.  Judson,  and  in 
July  sailed  with  him  on  his  return  to  India, 
where  she  is  now  occupied  with  the  duties 
of  her  mission.  Soon  after  her  arrival,  the 
barbarians  robbed  her  of  all  the  gifts  and  sou 
venirs,  all  the  dresses,  and  all -the  cherished 
books,  that  she  carried  from  America  ;  and 


other  trials  of  her  faith  came  —  but  none  will 
ever  make  her  look  back  with  regret  from 
the  task  set  before  her:  and  her  life  yet  to 
be  lived,  it  is  trusted,  will  sometime,  many 
years  from  now,  fill  the  brightest  pages  in 
our  missionary  history. 

The  longest  of  Mrs.  Judson's  poems  is  As- 
taroga,  or  the  Maid  of  the  Rock,  in  four  can 
tos,  containing  altogether  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  verses  of  the  Spenserian  measure. 
This  was  written  in  1844,  and  it  is  inferior 
to  several  of  her  later  compositions,  though 
there  is  spirit  and  grace  in  some  of  its  de 
scriptions  of  scenery  and  of  Indian  life.-  Her 
largest  prose  work,  except  Alderbrook,  is  a 
very  beautiful  memoir  of  Mrs.  Sarah  Judson, 
published  in  New  York  in  1848.  Among  the 
latest  of  her  poems  is  the  little  piece  entitled 
My  Bird,  of  which  the  biographical  signifi 
cance  is  sufficiently  apparent. 


THE  WEAVER. 

A  WKAVKR  sat  by  the  side  of  his  loom, 

A -flinging  his  shuttle  fast ; 
And  a  thread  that  would  wear  till  the  hour  of  doom 

Was  added  at  every  cast. 

His  warp  had  been  by  the  angels  spun, 
And  his  weft  was  bright  and  new. 

Like  threads  which  the  morning  unhraids  from  the 

sun, 
All  jewelled  over  with  dew. 

And  fresh-lipped,  bright-eyed,  beautiful  flowers 
In  the  rich,  soft  web  were  bedded  ; 

And  b'ithe  to  the  weaver  sped  onward  the  hours: 
Not  yet  were  Time's  feet  leaded  ! 

But  something  there  came  slow  stea  ing  by, 

And  a  shade  on  the  fabric  fell ; 
And  1  saw  that  the  shuttle  less  blithely  did  fly — 

For  thought  hath  a  wearisome  spell! 

And  a  thread  that  next  o'er  the  warp  was  lain, 

Was  of  melancholy  gray  ; 
And  anon  I  marked  there  a  tear-drop's  stain, 

Where  the  flowers  had  fallen  away. 

But  still  the  weaver  kept  weaving  on, 

Though  the  fabric  all  was  gray  ; 
And  the  flowers,  and  the  buds,  and  the  leaves,  were 
gone, 

And  the  gold  threads  cankered  lay. 

And  dark — and  still  darker — and  darker  grew 

Each  newly-woven  thread  ; 
And  some  there  were  of  a  death-mocking  hue,* 

And  some  of  a  bloody  red. 

And  things  all  strange  were  woven  in, 

Sighs,  and  down-crushed  hopes,  and  fears ; 

And  the  web  was  broken,  and  poor,  and  thin, 
And  i'  dripped  with  living  tears. 


And  the  weaver  fain  would  have  flung  it  aside, 

But  he  knew  it  would  be  a  sin ; 
So  in  light  and  in  gloom  the  shuttle  he  plied, 

A-weaving  these  life-cords  in. 

And  as  he  wove,  and,  weeping,  still  wove, 

A  tempter  stole  him  nigh ; 
And,  with  glozing  words,  he  to  win  him  strove — 

But  the  weaver  turned  his  eye. 

He  upward  turned  his  eye  to  heaven, 

And  still  wove  on — on — on  ! 
Till  the  last,  last  cord  from  his  heart  was  riven, 

And  the  tissue  strange  was  done. 
Then  he  threw  it  about  his  shoulders  bowed, 

And  about  his  grizzled  head  ; 
And  gathering  close  the  folds  of  his  shroud, 

Lav  him  down  among  the  dead. 

And  I  after  saw,  in  a  robe  of  l.:ghf, 

The  weaver  in  the  sky  : 
The  angels'  wings  were  not  more  bright, 

And  the  stars  grew  pa'e  it  ni^h. 

And  I  saw,  mid  the  folds,  all  the  iris-hued  flowers 
That  beneath  his  touch  had  sprung; 

More  beautiful  far  than  these  stray  ones  of  ours, 
Which  the  angels  have  to  us  flung. 

And  wherever  a  tear  run!  fallen  down, 

Gleamed  out  a  diamond  rare ; 
And  jewels  befitting  a  monarch's  crown 

Were  the  footprints  left  by  Care. 

And  wherever  had  swept  the  breath  of  a  sigh, 

Was  left  a  rich  perfume  ; 
And  with  light  from  the  fountain  of  bliss  in  the  sky 

Shone  the  labor  of  Sorrow  and  Gloom. 
And  then  I  prayed,  "  When  my  last  work  is  done, 

And  the  silver  life-cord  riven, 
Be  the  stain  of  Sorrow  the  deepest  one 

That  I  bear  with  me  to  heaven !" 


EMILY   JUDSON. 


.MINISTERING  ANGELS- 

MOTHF.H,  has  the  dove  that  nestled 

Lovingly  upon  thy  breast, 
Folded  up  his  little  pinion, 

And  in  darkness  gone  to  rest] 
Nav,  the  grave  is  dark  and  dreary, 

Bit-  the  lost  one  is  not  there; 
Hear'st  thou  not  its  gentle  whisper, 

Floating  on  the  ambient  air  1 
It  is  near  thee,  gentle  mother, 

Near  thee  at  the  evening  hour; 
Its  soft  kiss  is  in  the  zephyr, 

It  looks  up  from  every  flower. 
A.nd  when,  Night's  dark  shadows  fleeing, 

Low  thou  bendest  thee  in  prayer, 
And  thy  heart  feels  nearest  heaven, 

Then  thy  angel  babe  is  there ! 

Maiden,  has  thy  noble  brother, 

On  whose  manly  form  thine  eye 
Loved  fu  1  oft  in  pride  to  linger, 

On  whose  heart  thou  couldst  rely, 
Though  all  other  hearts  deceived  thee, 

All  proved  hol'ow,  earth  grew  drear, 
Whose  protection,  ever  o'er  thee, 

Hid  thee  from  the  cold  world's  sneer — 
H.is  he  left  thee  here  to  struggle. 

All  unaided  on  thy  way  1 
Nay  ;  he  still  can  cuide  and  guard  thee, 

Still  thy  faltering  steps  can  stay: 
Still,  when  danger  hovers  o'er  thee, 

He  than  danger  is  more  near; 
When  in  grief  thou'st  none  to  pity, 

He,  the  sainted,  marks  each  tear. 

Lover,  is  the  light  extinguished 

Of  the  iiem  that,  in  thy  heart 
Hidden  dee, ly,  to  thy  being 

All  its  sunshine  cou'd  impart] 
Look  above  !  't  is  burning  brighter 

Than  the  very  stars  in  heaven ; 
And  to  light  thy  dangerous  pathway, 

All  its  new-found  g'ory  's  given. 
With  the  sons  of  earth  commingling, 

Thou  the  loved  one  mayst  forget ; 
Bright  eyes  flashing,  tresses  waving, 

May  have  pjwer  to  win  thee  yet; 
But  e'en  then  that  guardian  spirit 

Oft  will  whisper  in  thine  ear, 
And  in  silence,  and  at  midnight, 

Tnou  wilt  know  she  hovers  near. 

•Orphan,  thou  most  sorely  stricken 

Of  t'.ie  mourners  thronging  earth, 
Clouds  half  veil  thy  brightest  sunshine, 

Sadness  mingles  with  thy  mirth. 
Vet,  although  that  gentle  bosom, 

Which  has  pillowed  oft  thy  head, 
Now  is  cold,  thy  mother's  spirit 

Can  not  rest  among  the  dead. 
Still  her  watchful  eye  is  o'er  thee 

Through  the  day,  and  still  at  night 
Hers  the  eye  that  guards  thy  slumber, 

Making  thy  young  dreams  so  bright. 
Oh!  the  friends,  the  friends  we've  cherished, 

How  we  weep  to  see  them  die ! 


All  unthinking  they're  the  angels 
That  will  guide  us  to  the  sky  ! 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  A  SHORT  ABSENCE. 

GIVE  me  my  old  seat,  mother, 

With  my  head  upon  thy  knee ; 
I've  passed  through  many  a  changing  scene. 

Since  thus  I  sat  by  thee. 
Oh  !  let  me  look  into  thine  eyes : 

Their  mef  k,  soft,  loving  light 
Falls  like  a  gleam  of  holiness 

Upon  my  heart  to-night. 

T  've  not  been  long  away,  mother ; 

Few  suns  have  rose  and  set, 
Since  last  the  tear-drop  on  thy  cheek 

My  lips  in  kisses  met; 
'Tis  but  a  little  time,  I  know, 

But  very  long  it  seems, 
Though  every  night  I  come  to  thee, 

Dear  mother,  in  my  dreams. 

The  world  has  kindly  dealt,  mother, 

By  the  chi'd  thou  lovest  so  well ; 
Thy  prayers  have  circled  round  her  path, 

And  'twas  their  ho'y  spell 
W7hich  made  that  path  so  clearly  bright, 

Which  strewed  the  roses  there ; 
Wrhich  gave  the  light,  and  cast  the  balm 

On  every  breath  of  air. 

I  bear  a  happy  heart,  mother — 

A  happier  never  beat ; 
And  even  now  new  buds  of  hope 

Are  bursting  at  my  feet. 
Oh,  mother  !  life  may  be  "  a  dream," 

But  if  such  dreams  are  given, 
While  at  the  portal  thus  we  stand, 

What  are  the  truths  of  heaven  1 

I  bear  a  happy  heart,  mother; 

Yet,  when  fond  eyes  I  see, 
And  hear  soft  tones  and  winning  words, 

I  ever  think  of  thee. 
And  then,  the  tear  my  spirit  weeps 

Unbidden  fills  my  eye  ; 
And  like  a  homeless  dove,  I  long 

Unto  thy  breast  to  fly. 

Then,  I  am  very  sad,  mother, 

I  'm  very  sad  and  lone ; 
Oh !  there 's  no  heart  whose  inmost  fold 

Opes  to  me  like  thine  own  ! 
Though  sunny  smi'es  wreathe  blooming  lip.-' 

While  love-tones  meet  my  ear — 
My  mother,  one  fond  glance  of  thine 

Were  thousand  times  more  dear. 

Then,  with  a  closer  clasp,  mother, 

Now  hold  me  to  thy  heart ; 
I'd  feel  it  beating  'gainst  my  own 

Once  more  before  we  part. 
And,  mother,  to  this  lovelit  spoi, 

When  I  am  far  away, 
Come  oft — too  oft  thou  canst  not  come  !-^ 

An  1  for  thy  darling  pray. 


244 


EMILY    JUD    ON. 


TO  SPRING. 

A  WKT.COMK,  pretty  maiden — 

Dainty -footed  Spring! 
Thou,  with  the  treasures  laden 

No  other  hand  can  bring. 
While  onward  thou  art  tripping, 
Children  all  around  are  skipping, 
\nd  the  low  brown  eaves  are  dripping 

With  the  gladsomest  of  tears. 

From  mossed  old  trees  are  bursting 

The  tiny  specks  of  green  ; 
Long  have  their  pores  been  thirsting 

For  the  gushing  sap,  I  ween ; 
With  scarce  a  shade  molesting, 
The  laughing  light  is  resting 
On  the  slender  group  that's  cresting 

Yon  fresh,  green  hillock's  brow. 

At  the  timid  flower  it  glances, 
Beneath  the  maple's  shade  ; 

And  foiled,  it  lightly  dances 

With  the  bars  the  boughs  have  made 

On  the  waters  of  the  river, 

Still  in  a  winter's  shiver, 

Its  golden  streamers  quiver, 
O'er-brimmed  with  lusty  life. 

The  folded  buds  are  blushing 

On  the  gnarled  apple-tree ; 
While,  the  small  grass-blades  a-crushing, 

Children  gather  them  to  see ; 
And  the  bee,  thus  early  coming, 
All  around  the  clusters  humming, 
Upon  the  bland  air  thrumming, 

Piunges  to  the  nectared  sweets. 

Life,  life,  the  fields  is  flushing ! 

Joy  springs  up  from  the  ground ; 
And  joyous  strains  are  gushing 

From  the  wood'and  all  around ; 
From  birds  on  wild  wings  wheeling, 
Up  from  the  cottage  stealing, 
Fro  n  the  full-voiced  woodman  pealing, 

Ring  out  the  tones  of  joy. 

Thrice  welcome,  pretty  maiden  ! 

With  thy  kiss  upon  my  cheek, 
Howo'er  with  care  o'erladen, 

Of  care  I  could  not  speak ; 
Now,  I  '11  make  a  truce  with  sorrow, 
And  not  one  cloud  will  borrow 

the  dark,  unsunned  morrow ; 

I  will  be  a  child  with  thee. 


DEATH. 

WHEX  day  is  dying  in  the  west, 
Each  flickering  ray  of  crimson  light, 

The  sky,  in  gold  and  purple  dressed, 
The  cloud,  with  glory  all  bedight, 
And  every  shade  that  ushers  night, 

And  each  cool  breeze  that  comes  to  weave 

Its  dampness  with  my  curls — all  leave 
A  lesson  sad ! 

Last  night  I  plucked  a  half-shut  flower, 
Which  blushed  and  nodded  on  its  stem; 


A  thing  to  grace  a  Peri's  bower; 

It  seemed  to  me  some  priceless  gem, 

Dropped  from  an  angel's  diadem ; 
But  soon  the  blossom  drooping  lay, 
And,  as  it  withered,  seemed  to  say, 

"  We're  passing  all !" 
I  loved  a  fair-haired,  gentle  boy, 

(A  bud  of  brightness — ah,  too  rare  !) 
I  loved  him,  and  I  saw  with  joy 

Heaven's  purity  all  centred  there : 

But  he  went  up,  that  heaven  to  share; 
And,  as  his  spirit  from  him  stole, 
His  last  look  graved  upon  my  soul, 

"  Learn  thus  to  die  !" 
I've  seen  the  star  that  glowed  in  heaven, 

W  hen  other  stars  seemed  half  asleep, 
As  though  from  its  proud  station  driven, 

Go  rushing  down  the  azure  steep, 

Through  space  unmeasured,  dark,  and  deep ; 
And,  as  it  vanished  far  in  night, 
I  read  by  its  departing  light, 

"  Thus  perish  all !" 
I  've,  in  its  dotage,  seen  the  year, 

Worn  out  and  weary,  struggling  on, 
Till  falling  prostrate  on  its  bier, 

Time  marked  another  cycle  gone ; 

And,  as  I  heard  the  dying  moan, 
Upon  my  trembling  heart  there  fell 
The  awful  words,  as  by  a  spell, 

"  Death,  death  to  all !" 
They  come  on  every  breath  of  air, 

Wrhich  sighs  its  feeble  life  away  f 
They're  whispered  by  each  blossom  fair, 

Which  folds  a  lid  at  close  of  day  ;' 

There's  naught  ef  earth,  or  sad  or  gay, 
There's  naught  below  the  starlit  skies, 
But  leaves  one  lesson  as  it  flies — 

"  Thou  too  must  die  !" 
And  numberless  those  silvery  chords, 

Dissevered  by  the  spoiler's  hand, 
But  each  in  breaking  still  affords 

A  tone  to  say  we  all  are  banned ; 

And  on  each  brow  by  death-damps  spanned, 
The  pall,  the  slowly  moving  hearse, 
Is  traced  the  burden  of  my  verse — 

"  Death,  death  to  man  !" 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADES. 

IF  there  be  light  upon  my  being's  cloud, 

I'll  cast  o'er  other  hearts  its  cheering  ray; 

'T  will  add  new  brightness  to  my  toilsome  way 
But  when  my  spirit's  sadness  doth  enshroud 

Hope's  coruscations,  Pleasure's  meteor  gleam, 
And  darkness  settles  down  upon  my  heart, 
And  Care  exerts  her  blighting,  cankering  art, 

Then,  then,  what  I  am  not  I'll  strive  to  seem 
Wo  has  no  right  her  burden  to  divide, 
To  cast  her  shadows  o'er  a  sunny  soul : 
So,  though  my  bark  rock  on  the  troubled  tide, 

Or  lie,  half  wrecked,  upon  the  hidden  shoal, 
The  flowers  of  Hope  shall  garland  it  the  while, 
Though  plucked  from  out  her  urn  in  death  t,o  smil« 


EMILY   JUDSON. 


245 


CLINGING  TO  EARTH. 

OH,  do  not  let  me  die !  the  earth  is  bright, 

And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well ; 
Though  heaven  is  holier,  and  all  full  of  light, 

Yet  I  am  frail,  and  with  frail  things  would  dwell. 

[  can  not  die !  the  flowers  of  earthly  love 

Shed  their  rich  fragrance  on  a  kindred  heart ; 
There  may  be  purer,  brighter  flowers  above, 

Yet  with  these  ones  't  would  be  too  hard  to  part. 
I  dream  of  heaven,  and  well  I  love  these  dreams, 

They  scatter  sunlight  on  my  varying  way ; 
But  mid  the  clouds  of  earth  are  priceless  gleams 

Of  brightness,  and  on  earth  oh  let  me  stay. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  void  of  gloom, 
That  sadness  never  circles  round  my  heart ; 

Nor  that  I  fear  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 
That  I  would  never  from  the  earth  depart. 

'T  is  that  I  love  the  world — its  cares,  its  sorrows, 
Its  bounding  hopes,  its  feelings  fresh  and  warm, 

Each  cloud  it  wears,  and  every  light  it  borrows — 
Loves,  wishes,  fears,  the  sunshine  and  the  storm  ; 

I  love  them  all :  but  closer  still  the  loving 

Twine  with  my  being's  cords  and  make  m}  life ; 
And  while  within  this  sunlight  I  am  moving, 

I  well  can  bide  the  storms  of  worldly  strife. 
Then  do  not  let  me  die !  for  earth  is  bright, 

And  I  am  earthly,  so  I  love  it  well ; 
Heaven  is  a  land  of  holiness  and  light, 

But  I  am  frail,  and  with  the  frail  would  dwell. 


ASPIRING  TO  HEAVEN. 

YES,  let  me  die !     Am  I  of  spirit-birth, 
And  shall  I  linger  here  where  spirits  fell, 

Loving  the  stain  they  cast  on  all  of  earth  ] 
Oh  make  me  pure,  with  pure  ones  e'er  to  dwell ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  die !     The  flowers  of  earthly  love 
(Fair,  frail,  spring  blossoms)  early  droop  and  die  ; 

But  all  their  fragrance  is  exhaled  above, 
Upon  our  spirits  evermore  to  lie. 

Life  is  a  dream,  a  bright  but  fleeting  dream, 
I  can  but  love ;  but  then  my  soul  awakes, 

And  from  the  mist  of  earthliness  a  gleam 
Of  heavenly  light,  of  truth  immortal,  breaks. 

[  shrink  not  from  the  shadows  Sorrow  flings 
Aeross  my  pathway ;  nor  from  cares  that  rise 

[n  every  footprint ;  for  each  shadow  brings 
Sunshine  and  rainbow  as  it  glooms  and  flies. 

But  heaven  is  dearer.    There  I  have  my  treasure  ; 

There  angels  fold  in  love  their  snowy  wings ; 
There  sainted  lips  chant  in  celestial  measure, 

And  spirit  fingers  stray  o'er  heav'n-wrought  strings 

There  loving  eyes  are  to  the  portals  straying ; 

There  arms  extend,  a  wanderer  to  fold ; 
There  waits  a  dearer,  holier  One,  arraying 

His  own  in  spotless  robes  and  crowns  of  gold. 


Then  let  me  die  !     My  spirit  longs  for  heaven, 
In  that  pure  bosom  evermore  to  rest ; 

But,  if  to  labor  longer  here  be  given, 
"  Father,  thy  wU  be  done  !"  and  I  am  blest. 


THE  BUDS  OF  THE  SARANAC* 

Ax  angel  breathed  upon  a  budding  flower, 

And  on  that  breath  the  bud  went  up  to  heaven, 
Yet  left  a  fragrance  in  the  little  bower 

To  which  its  first  warm  blushes  had  been  given  , 
And,  by  that  fragrance  nursed,  another  grew, 

And  so  they  both  had  being  in  the  last, 
And  on  this  one  distilled  heaven's  choicest  dew, 

And  rays  of  glorious  light  wefe  on  it  cast, 
Until  the  floweret  claimed  a  higher  birth, 

And  would  not  open  on  a  scene  so  drear, 
For  it  was  more  of  paradise  than  earth, 

And  strains  from  thence  came  ever  floating  near ; 
And  so  it  passed,  and  long  ere  noontide's  hour, 
The  buds  of  earth  had  oped,  a  heaven-born  flower. 


MY  BIRD. 

ERE  last  years  moon  had  left  the  sky, 
A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 

And  folded,  oh  !  so  lovingly, 
Its  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge, 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies ; 

Two  rose-leaves,  with  a  silken  fringe, 
Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 

There 's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird  ; 

Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest; 
0  God,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred, 

Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest ! 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing, 
This  seeming  visitant  from  Heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  immortal  wing, 
To  me — to  me,  thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke, 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine : 

This  life,  which  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  thine. 

A  silent  aw,e  is  in  my  room — 
I  tremble  with  delicious  fear; 

The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom, 
Time  and  eternity  are  here. 

Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise ; 

Hear,  oh  my  God  !  one  earnest  prayei 
Room  for  my  bird  in  paradise, 

And  give  her  angel  plumage  there ! 

Maulmain,(hidia,)  January,  1848. 


*  Lucretia  and  Margaret  Davidson. 


ELIZABETH    J.    EAMES. 


MRS.  EAMES,  whose  maiden  name  was 
j£sup,.is  a  native  of  the  state  of  New  York, 
,.>nd  her  early  years  were  passed  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson.  In  1837  she  was  married  to 
Mr.  W.  S.  Eames,  and  removed  to  New  Hart 
ford,  near  Utic*,  where  she  has  since  resi 
ded.  Mrs.  Eames  was  for  several  years  a 
contributor  to  Mr.  Greeley's  New  Yorker, 
and  she  now  writes  frequently  for  The  Tri 


bune  ;  but  many  of  her  more  carefully  fin 
ished  poems  have  appeared  in  Graham's 
Magazine  and  the  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger.  She  writes  with  feeling  ;  but  she  re 
gards  poetry  as  an  art,  and  to  the  cultivation 
of  it  she  brings  her  best  powers.  While 
thoughtful  and  earnest,  therefore,  her  pieces 
are  for  the  most  part  distinguished  for  a 
tasteful  elegance. 


CROWNING  OF  PETRARCH. 

ARRAYED  in  a  monarch's  royal  robes, 

With  go'd  and  purple  gleaming, 
And  the  broidered  banners  of  the  proud 

Colonna  o'er  him  streaming — 
With  the  gorgeous  pomp  and  pageantry 

Of  the  Anjouite's  court  attended, 
He  came,  that  princely  son  of  song  : 

And  the  haughtiest  nobles  rendered 
Adoring  homage  to  the  laureate  bard,       [starred. 
Whose  sky  was  luminous — with  fame  and  glory 
And  following  his  triumphal  car, 

Rome's  youthful  sons  came  singing 
His  passion  kindled  melodies, 

With  the  silver  clarion  ringing 
A  prouder  music — harp,  and  lute, 

And  lyre,  all  sweet  sounds  blending — 
And  the  orient  sun-god  on  his  way 

In  dazz'ing  lustre  bending  : 

And  radiant  flowers  their  gem-like  splendor  shed 
O'er  the  proud  march  that  to  the  Eternal  City  led! 
In  all  its  ancient  grandeur  was 

That  sceptred  city  drest, 
And  pealing  notes  and  plaudits  rang 

For  him  its  sovereign  guest : 
The  voice  of  the  Seven  Hills  went  up 

From  kingly  hall  and  bower, 
And  throngs  with  laurel  boughs  poured  forth 

To  grace  that  triumph  hour; 
While  censers  wafted  rich  perfume  around, 
And  the  glowing  air  with  mirth  and  melody  was 

crowned  ! 
On,  onward  to  the  Capitol, 

Italia's  children  crowded — 
Over  three  hundred  triumphs  there 

The  sun  had  sat  unclouded : 
T'or  crowned  kings  and  couqucrors  haught' 

Had  irod  that  path  to  glory, 
And  poets  won  bright  wreaths  and  names 

To  live  in  song  and  story  ' 
Hut  ne'er  before,  king,  bard,  01  victor  came, 
Winning  such  honors  for  his  name  and  poet-fame. 


The  glittering  gates  are  passed,  and  he 

Hath  gained  the  imperial  summit, 
And  deep  rich  strains  of  harmony 

Are  proudly  floating  from  it : 
Incense — sunshine — and  the  swelling 

Shout  of  a  nation's  heart  beneath  him, 
Go  up  to  his  glorious  place  of  pride, 

While  the  kingly  Orsos  wreathe  him! 
Well  may  the  bard's  enraptured  heart  beat  high, 
Filled  with  the  exulting  thought  of  his  gift's  bright 

victory. 
Crowned  one  of  Rome  !  from  that  lofty  height 

Thou  wear'*t  a  conqueror's  seeming — 
Thy  dark,  deep  eye  with  the  radiance 

Of  inspiration  beaming ; 
Thou'st  won  the  living  wreath  for  which 

.Thy  young  ambition  panted  ; 
Thy  aspiring  dream  is  realized  : 

Hast  thou  one  wish  ungranted  ? 
Kings  bow  to  the  might  of  thy  genius-gifted  mind  : 
Hast  thou  one  unattained  hope,  in  the'deep  heart 
enshrined  ? 

Oh,  wreathed  lord  of  the  lyre  of  song  ! 

Even  then  thy  heart  was  haunted 
With  one  wild  and  passionate  wish  to  lay 

That  crown,  a  gift  enchanted, 
Low  at  her  feet,  whose  smile  was  more 

Than  glory,  fame,  or  power — 
For  whose  dear  sake  was  won.  and  worn, 

The  glittering  laurel  flower  ! 
Oh,  little  worth  thy  bright  renown  to  thee, 
Unshared  by  her,  the  star  of  thy  idolatry  ! 

Thanks  to  thy  lyre  !  she  liveth  yet. 

Oh  poet,  in  thy  numbers — 
The  peerless  star  of  Avignon, 

Who  shone  o'er  all  thy  slumbers : 
Entire  and  sole  idolatry 

At  Laura's  shrine  was  given, 
Yet  was  her  life-lot  severed  far 

From  thine  as  earth  and  heaven  ! 
And  thou,the  crowned  of  Rome — gifted  and  great— 
Stood  in  thy  glory  still  alone  and  desolate  ' 
246 


ELIZABETH   J.   EAMES 


THE  DEATH  OF  PAN. 

FROM  the  Ionian  sea  a  voice  came  sighing — 

A  voice  of  mournful  sweetness  and  strange  power, 
Borne  on  the  scented  breeze  when  day  was  dying, 

Through  fair  Arcadie's  sylvan  groves  and  bowers, 
Along  her  thousand  sunny  colored  rills  — 

Her  fairy  peopled  vales  and  haunted  fountains — 
Along  her  glens,  and  grots,  and  antique  hills, 

And  o'er  her  vine-hung,  purp'e  tinted  mountains, 
Was  heard  that  piercing,  haunting  voice,which  said, 
The  God  of  Song,  the  once  great  Pan.  is  dead  ! 
The  old  Sileni  in  their  sparry  caves —     [cesses — 

The  fauns  and  wood  nymphs  in  their  green  re- 
The  lovely  naiads  by  the  whispering  waves — 

The  oriads,  through  all  their  mountain  passes, 
Wept  when  that  voice  thrilled  on  the  silent  air : 

The  stately  shepherd,  and  the  soft  eyed  maiden, 
Who  dwelt  in  Arcadie — the  famed  and  fair 

Wept — for  that  moaning  voice,  with  sorrow  laden, 
Told  that  the  sylvan  king,  with  his  gay  court, 
Would  join  no  more  their  song  and  greenwood  sport. 

Died  he  in  Thessaly,  that  land  enchanted  ] 

In  Tempi's  ever  rich,  romantic  vale  1 
By  c'ear  Peneus,  whose  classic  tide  is  haunted  1 

Or  did  Olympus  listen  to  the  wail 
Of  all  his  satyrs  1     Died  he  where 

His  infancy  to  Sinoe's  care  was  given, 
When  first  his  flute-tones  melted  on  the  air, 

And  filled  with  music  Grecia's  glorious  heaven  '.' 
Where  many  a  wild  and  long  remembered  strain 
He  poured  for  shepherdess  and  rustic  swain  ] 
Ah  yes  !  he  died  in  Arcadie,  and  never 

Unto  his  favorite  haunts  did  mirth  return  : 
The  voice  of  song  was  hushed  by  wood  and  river, 

Long  did  his  children  for  his  presence  yearn — 
But  never  more  by  old  Alpheus'  shore 

Was  heard  the^song-voice  of  the  god  of  gladness : 
His  tuneful  reed  its  numbers  poured  no  more 

Where  Dian  and  her  oriads  roved  in  sadness ; 
The  soul  of  love  and  melody  had  fled 
Far  from  Arcadie — the  great  Pan  was  dead  ! 


CLEOPATRA. 

E. \CIIANTU ESS  queen  !  whose  empire  of  the  heart 

With  sovereign  sway  o'er  sea  and  land  extended, 
Whose  peerless,  haunting  charms,  and  siren  art, 

Won  from  the  imperial  Caesar  conquests  splendid  : 
Rome  sent  her  thousands  forth,  and  foreign  powers 

Poured  in  thy  woman's  hand  an  empire's  treasures. 
Was  Fate  beside  thee  in  those  gorgeous  hours 

When  monarchs  knelt,  slaves  to  thy  merest  pleas- 
When  but  a  gesture  of  thy  royal  hand        [ures  1 
Was  to  the  proud  triumvirs  a  command. 
Oh,  bright  Egyptian  queen !   thy  day  is  past 

With  the  young  Caesar — lo  !  the  spell  is  broken 
That  thy  all  radiant  beauty  o'er  him  cast ; 

Kis  eye  is  cold — wo  for  thy  grief  unspoken  ! 
Yet  thy  proud  features  wear  a  mask,  which  tells 

How  true  thou  art  to  thy  commanding  nat  ire  : 
Once  more,  in  all  thy  wild,  bewildering  spells,  [ture ; 

Thou  standest  robed  and  crowned,  imperial  crea- 


Thy  royal  barge  is  on  the  sunny  sea — 

Oh,  sceptred  queen  !   goest  thou  victoriously  ? 

But  hark  !   a  trumpet's  thrilling  call  to  arms 

O'er  the  soft  sounds  of  lute  and  lyre  ringeth  ! 
Doubt  not  thy  matchless  sovereignty  of  charms, 

But  haste — the  victor  of  Philippi  bringeth 
His  shielded  warriors  and  lords  renowned  ;    [theo, 

With  spear  and  prince'y  crest  they  come  to  meet 
Arrayed  for  triumph,  and  witli  laurels  crowned  : 

How  will  their  stern  and  haughty  leader  treat  thee  1 
He  comes  to  conquer — lo !   on  bended  knee 
The  spell-bound  Roman  pleads,  and  yields  to  thee '. 

Once  more  the  world  is  thine  :  exultingly 

Thy  beautiful  and  stately  head  is  lifted. 
He  lives  but  in  thv  srni  e — proud  Antony, 

The  crowned  of  empire — he,  the  grand'y  gifted. 
The  spoi's  of  nations  at  thy  feet  are  laid  — 

The  wealth  of  kingdoms  for  thy  favor  scattered  : 
O!i,  siren  of  the  Nile  !  thy  love  has  made 

The  royal  Roman's  ruin  !  crowns  were  shattered 
And  kingdoms  lost :  fame,  honor,  glory,  power, 
Were  playthings  given  to  grace  thy  triumph-hot"1 

Another  change  !  the  last  for  thee,  doomed  queen, 

Now  calmly  on  thine  ivory  couch  reclining — 
The  impassioned  glow  hath  left  thy  marble  mien, 

And  from  thy  night-black  eyeshath  past  the  shining. 
But  still  a  queen  !  that  brow,  so  icy  cold, 

Its  diadem  of  starry  jewels  beareth  : 
Robed  in  the  royal  purple,  and  the  gold, 

No  conqueror's  chain  that  form  imperial  beareth. 
To  grace  Death's  triumph  was  but  left  for  thee, 
Daughter  of  Afric,  by  the  asp  set  free  ! 


MY  MOTHER. 

Mr  mother  !  oft  as  thy  dear  name  I  mention, 
Or  trace  thine  image  in  my  musing  dream, 

How  strain  my  heart  nerves  to  their  fullest  tension ; 
How  swells  and  bounds,  like  an  imprisoned  stream, 

My  restless  spirit  to  go  forth  to  thee, 

Whose  dear,  dear  face,  I  in  each  nightly  vision  see. 

Dear  mother,  of  the  thousand  strings  which  waker 
The  s'eeping  harp  within  the  human  heart, 

The  longest  kept  in  tune,  though  oft  forsaken, 
Is  that  in  which  the  mother's  voice  bears  part: 

Her  still,  small  voice,  which  e'en  the  careless  ear 

Turneth  with  deep  reverence  and  pure  delight  to 
hear 

But  once,  kind  mother,  might  this  aching  forehead 
Feel  the  soft  pressure  of  thy  gentle  hand—  - 

Could  this  poor  heart,  that  so  hath  pined  and  sor 
rowed, 
Yet  once  more  feel  its  pulse  of  hope  expand 

At  thy  dear  presence — oh,  mother,  might  this  be, 

I  could  die  blessing  God,  for  one  last  look  at  thee ! 

For  one  last  word — alas  !  that  I  should  ever 

E'en  carelessly  have  caused  thy  heart  a  pain  I 
How  oft,  amid  my  late  life's  "  fitful  fever," 

Thy  many  acts  of  kindness  rise  again- 
Unheeded  then,  but  well  remembered  now  . 
Oh  for  thy  blessing  said  once  more  above  my  brow { 


248 


ELIZABETH   J.   EAMES. 


Fond  wish,  hut  vain  !  and  I  am  weak  to  smother 
The  human  yearnings  that  my  bosom  fill ; 

Thou  canst  hut  hope  and  pray,  dear  distant  mother, 
That  the  All-pitying  may  aid  me  still — 

Aid  thy  frail  chi'd  to  lift,  in  lowly  trust, 

The  burden  of  her  heart  above  this  trembling  dust. 

And  pray  that  as  the  shadowy  hour  draws  nearer, 

God  may  irradiate  and  purify 
My  spirit's  inmost  vision,  to  see  clearer 

Through  Death's  dim  veil  the  pathway  to  the  sky  ! 
Mother  beloved  !  oh  let  this  comfort  thee, 
That  in  yon  blissful  heaven  shall  no  more  part 
ings  be. 

SONNETS. 

I.    MILTON". 

LKAHXED  and  illustrious  of  all  poets  thou, 

Whose  Titan  intellect  sublimely  bore 
The  weight  of  years  unbent — thou,  on  whose  brow 

Flourished  the  blossom  of  all  human  lore  : 
How  dost  thou  take  us  back,  as  'twere  bv  vision, 

To  the  grave  learning  of  the  Sanhedrim ; 
And  we  behold  in  visitings  Elysian, 

Where  waved  the  white  wings  of  the  cherubim ; 
But,  through  thy  "Paradise  Lost,"  and  "  Regained," 

We  might,  enchanted,  wander  evermore. 
Of  all  the  genius-gifted  thou  hast  reigned 

King  of  our  hearts;  and  till  upon  the  shore 
Of  the  Eternal  dies  the  voice  of  Time,     [sublime. 
Thy  name  shal  1  mightiest  stand — pure,  brilliant,  and 


II.    T)RYI)EX. 

NOT  dearer  to  the  scholar's  eye  than  mine, 

(Albeit  unlearned  in  ancient  classic  lore,) 

The  daintie  poesie  of  days  of  yore  — 
The  choice  o'd  English  rhyme — and  over  thine, 

Oh,  "glorious  John,"  delightedly  I  pore  : 
Keen,  vigorous,  chaste,  and  full  of  harmony, 

Deep  in  the  soil  of  our  humanity 

It  taketh  root,  until  the  goodly  tree 
Of  poesy  puts  forth  green  branch  and  bough,  [gloom 

With  bud  and  blossom  sweet.    Through  the  rich 
Of  one  embowered  haunt  I  sec  thee  now,  [bloom. 

Where  'neath  thy  hand  the  "  Flower  and  Leaflet" 
That  hand  to  dust  hath  mouldered  long  ago, 
Yet  its  creations  with  immortal  life  still  glow. 

III.    ADDISOY. 

THOU,  too,  art  worthy  of  all  praise,  whose  pen, 

"  In  thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn," 
did  sued 

A  noontide  glory  over  Milton's  head 

He,  "  prince  of  poets" — thou,  the  prince  of  men  : 

Blessings  on  theu,  and  on  the  honored  dead  ! 
How  dost  thou  charm  for  us  the  touching  story 

Of  the  lost  children  in  the  gloomy  wood 

Haunting  dim  memory  with  the  early  glory 

That  in  youth's  golden  years  our  hearts  imbued. 
From  the  fine  world  of  olden  poetry, 

Lifelike  and  fresh,  thou  bringest  forth  again 

The  gallant  heroes  of  an  earlier  reign, 
And  blend  them  in  our  minds  with  thoughts  of  thee, 
Whose  name  is  ever  shrined  in  old-world  memory. 


IV.    TASSO. 


A  HOVE  thy  golden  verse  I  bent  me  late, 
And  read  of  bright  Sophronia's  lover  young — 

Of  fair  Erminia's  flight — Clorinda's  fate  : 
While  over  Godfrey's  deeds  enwrapt  I  hung — 
And  Tancred's,  told  in  soft  Italia's  tongue  ! 

Thou  who  didst  tune  thy  harp  for  Salem's  shrine — 
Thou  the  renowned  and  gifted  among  men — 
Tasso,  superior  with  the  sword  and  pen  : 

Oh,  poet-heir !   vain  was  the  dower  divine 
To  still  the  unrest  of  thy  human  heart ! 

Lonely  and  cold  did  Glory's  star-beam  shine 
For  him  who  saw  a  lovelier  light  depart ! 

Oh,  master  of  the  lyre  !  did  not  thy  touch    [much. 

Tell  how  the  heart  may  break,that  Love  has  troubled 


V.    TO  THE   AUTHORESS   OF  THE   S1XLESS   CHILD. 

OFT  as  I  bend  o'er  thy  sweet  "  sinless  child," 

I  pause  to  think  of  thee,  oh,  ladye  fair  ! 

And  fancy  conjures  up  a  vision  rare 
Of  grace  ethereal  and  beauty  mild  : 

I  picture  thee  with  soft  and  glearny  hair, 
Down  shape'.y  shoulders  floating  goldenly — 

WTith  Eva's  eye,  and  brow,  and  spiritual  air, 
And  purest  lip — 'tis  thus  I  picture  thee. 

I  know  not  if  this  shadowy  ideal 

Do  justice  to  the  animated  real. 
I  ne'er  have  looked  upon  thy  form  of  face, 

Albeit  they  tell  me  thou  art  passing  fair ; 

I  know  but  of  the  Intellectual  there, 
And  shape  from  thence  all  loveliness  and  grace. 


VI.    TO  THE   AUTHORESS  OF  THE   SIXLESS   CHILD. 
(CONTINUED.) 

LADY  !  less  easy  were  it  now  to  tell 
How  the  soft  radiance  of  thy  dove-like  eyes 

Won  me  to  love  thee,  by  its  mingled  sprll 
Of  tenderness  and  graceful  majesty — 
And  how  thy  voice,  the  "ever  soft  and  low," 

Like  music  strains  returns  to  haunt  me  now. 

Thine,  too,  is  the  far  higher  charm,  which  hath 
Its  pure  source  in  the  spirit  depth  bel.vv: 

For  thou  hast  dallied  in  no  idle  path, 

But,  in  the  free  aspiring  of  thy  soul, 
Hast  gloriously  disproved  the  common  faith, 
That  man  alone  may  reach  the  mental  goal. 

Oh,  lady  dear  !  still  on  thine  honored  head  [shed. 

Blessings  of  heaven  and  earth  a  thousand  fold  be 


VI  I.    THE    PAST. 

IY  her  strange,  shadowy  coronet  she  weareth 

The  faded  jewels  of  an  earlier  time ; 
An  ancient  sceptre  in  her  hand  she  beareth — 

The  purple  of  her  robe  is  past  its  prime. 
Through  her  thin  silvery  locks  still  dimly  shineth 

The  (lower  wreath  woven  by  pale  Mem'ry's  fingers 
Her  heart  is  withered — yet  it  strangely  shrineth 

In  its  lone  urn  a  light  that  fitful  lingers. 
With  her  low,  muffled  voice  of  mystery,    [pages; 

She  reads  old   legends  from  Time's  mouldering 
She  telleth  the  present  the  recorded  history 

And  change  perpetual  of  bygone  ages  : 
Her  pilgrim  feet  still  seek  the  haunted  sod    [trod. 
Once  ours,butnowby  naught  but  memory's  footsteps 


ELIZABETH   J.  EAMES. 


249 


VIII.    DIEM    PERDIDI. 

When  the  Emperor  Titus  remembered,  at  night,  that  he  had  done  no 
thing  beneficial  during  theday.he  used  to  exclaim, '  1  have  lost  a  day  1' 

O  GHEATLY  wise  !  thou  of  the  crown  and  rod, 

Robed  in  the  purple  majesty  of  kings — 
Power  was  thine  own  where'er  thy  footsteps  trod, 

Yet  didst  thou  mourn  if  Time  on  idle  wings 
Went  by  for  thee  !     Deep  sunk  in  thought  wert 

And  sadness  rested  on  thy  noble  brow,    [thou — 
If,  when  the  dying  day  closed  o'er  thy  head, 

Thou  hadst  no  knowledge  gained,  no  good  con 
ferred  : 

«  Diem  Perdidi"  was  the  thought  that  stirred 
Thy  conscious  soul,  when  night  her  curtain  spread. 

Oh  emperor,  greatly  wise  !  could  we  so  deal 
With  misspent  hours,  and  win  thy  faith  sublime, 

We  should  not  be  (mid  the  soul's  mute  appeal) 
Such  triflers  with  the  solemn  trust  of  Time ! 


IX.,  X.    BOOKS. 

"  Of  making  many  books  there  is  no  end  ;  and  much  study  is  a  weari 
ness  of  the  flesh." — Solomon. 

"  OF  making  many  books  there  is  no  end," 

Said  the  wise  monarch  of  the  olden  time ; 

Yet,  through  all  ages  and  in  every  clime 
Doth  the  pale  seeker  o'er  his  studies  bend, 
The  intellectual  Numen  to  obey, 

Eager  and  anxious  still  :  still  doth  he  toil 
(Making  the  night  familiar  as  the  day) 

To  find  the  clew  to  loose  the  ravelled  coil — 
To  pierce  the  depth  of  things  that  hidden  lie 

The  oil  of  life  consumeth  :  this  he  knoweth, 
Yet,  with  a  feverish  brow  and  streaming  eye, 

He  seeks  to  find — and  patiently  bestoweth 
His  midnight  laborings  in  Wisdom's  mine,  [shine. 
To  win  for  earth  the  gems  that  midst  its  darkness 

"  Much  study  is  a  weariness.''     The  sage 
Who  gave  his  mind,  to  seek  and  search  until 

He  knew  all  wisdom,  found  that  on  the  page 
Knowledge  and  GrieTwere  vow'd  companions  still. 

And  so  the  students  of  a  later  day 
Sit  down  among  the  records  of  old  Time 
To  hold  high  commune  with  the  thoughts  sublime 

Of  minds  long  gone ;  so  they  too  pass  away, 
And  leave  us  what?   their  course,  to  toil,  reflect, 

To  feel  the  thorn  pierce  through  ourgathered  flowers, 
Still  midst  the  leaves  the  earth-worm  to  detect. 

And  this  is  knowledge  :  wisdom  is  not  ours. 
Oh  !  well  the  Preacher  bids  his  son  admonished  be, 
That  all  the  days  of  man's  short  life  are  vanity  ! 


THE  PICTURE  OF  A  DEPARTED  POETESS. 

THIS  still,  clear,  radiant  face !  doth  it  resemble 

In  each  fair,  faultless  lineament  thine  own  1 
Methinks  on  that  enchanting  lip  doth  tremble 

The  soul  that  breathes  thy  lyre's  melodious  tone. 
The  soul  of  music,  oh !  ethereal  spirit, 

Fills  the  dream-haunted  sadness  of  thine  eyes  ; 
Sweet  poetess !   thou  surely  didst  inherit 

Thy  gifts  celestial  from  the  upper  skies. 
Clear  on  the  expansion  of  that  snow-white  forehead 

Sits  intellectual  beauty,  meekly  throned; 


Yet  oh,  the  expression  tells  that  thou  hast  sorrowed, 
And  in  thy  yearning,  human  heart,  atoned 

For  thy  soul's  lofty  gifts ! — on  earth,  oh  never 
Was  the  deep  thirsting  of  thy  bosom  stilled ! 

The  "  aching  void"  followed  thce  here  for  ever — 
The  better  land  thy  dream  of  love  fulfilled. 


CHARITY. 

ALL  stainless  in  the  holy  white 

Of  her  broad  mantle,  lo !  the  maiden  cometh 

Lip,  cheek,  and  brow,  serenely  bright, 

With  that  calm  look  of  deep  delight. 

Beautiful  !  on  the  mountain-top  she  roameth. 

"  The  soft  gray  of  the  brooding  dove" 
With  melting  radiance  in  her  eye  she  weareth , 

Her  heart  is  full  of  trust  and  love-  - 

For  an  angel  mission  from  above, 
In  tranquil  beauty,  o'er  the  earth  she  beareth. 

The  music  of  humanity 
Flows  from  her  tuneful  lips  in  sweetest  numbers; 

Of  all  life's  pleasant  ministries — 

Of  universal  harmonies — 
She  sings  :  no  care  her  mind  encumbers. 

Glad  tidings  doth  she  ever  sound — 
Good  will  to  man  throughout  the  world  is  sending; 
Blessings  and  gifts  she  scatters  round  : 
Peace  to  her  name,  with  whom  is  found 
The  olive  branch,  in  holy  beauty  bending. 


FLOWERS  IN  A  SfCK  ROOM. 

YE  are  welcome  to  my  darkened  room, 

0  meek  and  lonely  wildwood  flowers ! 
Ye  are  welcome,  as  light  amid  the  gloom 

That  hangs  upon  rny  weary  hours. 
Here  by  my  lowly  couch  of  languishment  and  sorrow 
Your  station  take,  that  I  may  from  your  presence  bor- 
Lessons  of  hope,  and  lowly  trust,  [row 

That  He  whose  touch  revived  youi  bloom 
Hath  the  same  power  o'er  this  poor  dust, 

To  raise  it  from  the  shadowy  tomb ! 
Thanks  for  your  presence !  for  ye  bring 

Back  to  the  aching  heart  and  eye 
Bright  visions  of  the  festal  Spring, 

Its  blossoms,  birds,  and  azure  sky.    [tranged, 
Now,  far  from  each  green  haunt  and  sunny  nook  es- 
Fading  and  faint,  I  lie  ;  yet  in  my  heart  unchanged 
Glows  the  same  love  for  you,  fair  flowers, 

As  when  my  unchained  footsteps  trod 
Lightly  amidst  your  forest  bowers, 

And  plucked  ye  from  the  dewy  sod ! 
And  THOU,  who  gavest  these  grateful  flowers, 

1  bless  thee  for  thy  thought  of  me  ! 
And  that  through  long  and  painful  hours 

My  vigils  have  been  shared  by  thee.    [faltered, 

I  bless  thee  for  the  kindness  and  care  which  ne'er  have 

For  the  noble,  loving  heart  that  through  ill  remains 

A  little  while,  companion  dear,         [unaltered  ! 

And  e'en  thy  watchful  care  shall  cease : 
Oh,  grieve  not  when  the  hour  draws  near. 
But  thank  Heaven  that  it  brlngeth  peace ! 


EMELINE    S.    SMITH. 

(Born  1X23). 


Miss  EMELINE  SHERMAN,  now  MRS.  SMITH, 
was  born  in  New  Baltimore,  Greene  county, 
New  York,  and  in  1836  was  married  to  Mr. 
James  M.  Smith,  of  the  New  York  bar.  Mrs. 
Smith  has  been  a  contributor  to  several  of 
the  leading  literary  journals,  and  in  1847 
she  published  a  volume  entitled  The  Fairy's 


Search,  and  other  Poems,  in  which  she  has 
evinced  considerable  fancy,  and  a  poetical 
vein  of  sentiment.  Her  distinguishing  char 
acteristics  are  a  religious  delight  in  nature, 
and  a  contentment  with  home  affec;ions  and 
pleasures,  which  in  one  form  or  another  aro 
the  materiel  of  the  finest  poetry  of  women 


HYMN  TO  THE  DEITY, 
IN  THE  CONTEMPLATION  OF  NATURE. 

TII or  Giver  of  all  earthly  good — 

Thou  wonder-working  Power, 
Whose  spirit  smiles  in  every  star, 

And  breathes  in  every  flower : 
How  gratefully  we  speak  thy  name — 

How  gladly  own  thy  sway  ! 
How  thrillingly  thy  presence  feel, 

When  mid  thy  works  we  stray  ! 

We  may  forget  thee  for  a  time, 

In  scenes  with  tumult  rife, 
Where  worldly  cares  or  pleasures  claim 

Too  large  a  share  of  life ; 
But  not  in  Nature's  sweet  domain, 

Where  everything  we  see, 
From  loftiest  mount  to  lowliest  flower, 

Is  eloquent  of  thee. 

Where  waves  lift  up  their  tuneful  voice, 

And  solemn  anthems  chime  ; 
Where  winds  through  echoing  forests  peal 

Their  melodies  sublime; 
Where  e'en  insensate  objects  breathe 

Devotion's  grateful  lays — 
Man  can  not  choose  but  join  the  choir 

That  hymns  his  Maker's  praise. 

Beneath  the  city's  gilded  domes, 

In  temples  decked  with  care, 
Where  Art  and  Splendor  vie  to  make 

Thine  earthly  mansions  fair, 
Our  forms  mav  lowly  bend,  our  lips 

May  breathe  a  formal  lay, 
The  whilst  our  wayward  hearts  refuse 

These  holy  rites  to  pay. 

But  in  that  grander  temple,  reared 

By  thine  Almighty  band, 
Where  glorious  beauty  bids  the  mind's 

Diviner  powers  expand, 
~)ur  thoughts,  like  grateful  vassals,  give 

An  homage  glad  and  free ; 


Our  souls  in  adoration  bow, 
And  mutely  reverence  Thee. 


WE'VE  HAD  OUR  SHARE   OF  BLISS 
BELOVED. 

WK  'VK  had  our  share  of  bliss,  beloved, 

We  've  had  our  share  of  bliss ; 
And  mid  the  varying  scenes  of  life, 

Let  us  remember  this. 
If  sorrows  come,  from  vanished  joy 

We'll  borrow  such  a  light 
As  the  departed  sun  bestows 

Upon  the  queen  of  night : 
And  thus,  by  Memory's  moonbeams  cheered, 

Hope's  sun  we  shall  not  miss, 
But  tread  life's  path  as  gay  as  when 

We  had  our  share  of  bliss. 

'Tis  true  our  sky  hath  had  its  clouds, 

Our  spring  its  stormy  hours  — 
When  we  have  mourned,  as  all  must  mourn, 

O'er  blighted  buds  and  flowers ; 
And  true,  our  bark  hath  sometimes  neared 

Despair's  most  desert  shore, 
When  gloomy  looked  the  waves  around, 

And  dark  the  land  before  : 
But  Love  was  ever  at  the  helm — 

He  could  not  go  amiss, 
So  Ion  2;  as  two  fond  spirits  sang, 

"  We  've  had  our  share  of  bliss." 

These  holy  watchwords  of  the  Past 

Shall  be  the  Future's  stay — 
For  by  their  magic  aid  we  '11  keep 

A  host  of  i.ls  at  bay. 
Our  happv  hearts,  like  tireless  bees, 

Have  revelled  mid  the. flowers, 
And  hived  a  store  of  summer  sweets 

To  cheer  life's  wintry  hours : 
While  Memory  lives,  and  Love  remains, 

We'll  ask  no  more  than  this — - 
But  ever  sing,  in  grateful  strains, 

"  We  've  had  our  share  of  bliss." 
2.10 


MAEGAEET   FULLEE,  MAECHIONESS    D'OSSOLL 


(Born  1810-Died  1850). 


THE  MARCHIONESS  D'OSSOLT  is  known  as  a 
prose  writer.  Her  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  Papers  on  Literature  and  Art,  Sum 
mer  on  the  Lakes,  etc.,  entitle  her  undoubt 
edly  to  be  ranked  among  the  first  authors  of 
her  sex.  I  have  recently  re-read  these  works, 
incited  to  do  so  by  the  apparent  candor  and 
decided  sagacity  displayed  in  the  Letters  she 
has  written  to  The  Tribune  during  her  resi 
dence  in  Europe  ;  and  I  confess  some  change 


of  opinion  in  her  favor  since  writing  the 
article  upon  her  in  The  Prose  Writers  of 
America.  Few  can  boast  so  wide  a  range 
of  liierary  culture  ;  perhaps  none  Avrite  so 
well  with  as  much  facility  ;  and  there  is 
marked  individuality  in  all  her  productions. 
As  a  poet,  we  have  few  illustrations  of  her 
abilities  ;  but  what  we  have  are  equal  to  her 
reputation.  She  is  said  to  have  written  much 
more  poetry  than  she  has  published. 


GOVERNOR  EVERETT    RECEIVING  THE 
INDIAN  CHIEFS,  NOVEMBER,  1837. 

WHO  says  that  poesy  is  on  the  wane, 
And  that  the  Muses  tune  their  lyres  in  vain  7 
Mid  all  the  treasures  of  romantic  story, 
When  thought  was  fresh  and  fancy  in  her  glory, 
Has  ever  Art  found  out  a  richer  theme, 
More  dark  a  shadow,  or  mo-re  soft  a  gleam, 
Than  fall  upon  the  scene,  sketched  carelessly, 
In  the  newspaper  column  of  to-day  1 

American  romance  is  somewhat  stale. 
Talk  of  the  hatchet,  and  the  faces  pale, 
Wampum  and  calumets,  and  forests  dreary, 
Once  so  attractive,  now  begins  to  weary. 
Uncas  and  Magawisca  please  us  still — 
Unreal,  yet  idealized  with  skill  ; 
But  every  poetaster,  scribbling  witling, 
From  the  majestic  oak  his  stylus  whittling, 
Has  helped  to  tire  us,  and  to  make  us  fear 
The  monotone  in  which  so  much  we  hear 
Of  "  stoics  of  the  wood,"  and  "  men  without  a  tear." 

Yet  Nature,  ever  buoyant,  ever  young, 
If  let  alone,  will  sing  as  erst  she  sung  : 
The  course  of  circumstance  gives  back  again 
The  picturesque,  erewhile  pursued  in  vain — 
Shows  us  the  fount  of  romance  is  not  wasted, 
The  lights  and  shades  of  contrast  not  exhausted. 

Shorn  of  his  strength,  the  Samson  now  must  sue 
For  fragments  from  the  feast  his  fathers  gave ; 
The  Indian  dare  not  claim  what  is  his  due,  . 
But  as  a  boon  his  heritage  must  crave  : 
His  stately  form  shall  soon  be  seen  no  more 
Through  all  his  father's  land,  th'  Atlantic  shore; 
Beneath  the  sun,  to  us  so  kind,  they  melt — 
More  heavily  each  day  our  rule  is  felt : 
The  tale  is  old — we  do  as  mortals  must ; 
Might  makes  right  here,  but  God  and  Time  are  just. 

So  near  the  drama  hastens  to  its  close, 
On  this  last  scene  awhi'e  your  eyes  repose: 
The  polished  Greek  and  Scythian  meet  again, 
The  ancient  life  is  lived  by  modern  men — 


The  savage  through  our  busy  cities  walks — 
He  in  his  untouched  grandeur  silent  stalks  ! 
Unmoved  by  all  our  gayeties  and  shows, 
Wonder  nor  shame  can  touch  him  as  he  goes: 
He  gazes  on  the  marvels  we  have  wrought, 
But  knows  the  models  from  whence  all  was  brought  • 
In  God's  first  temples  he  has  stood  so  oft, 
And  listened  to  the  natural  organ  loft —     [heard, 
Has  watched  the  eagle's  fhght,the  muttering  thunder 
Art  can  not  move  him  to  a  wondering  word: 
Perhaps  he  sees  that  all  this  luxury 
Brings  less  food  to  the  mind  than  to  the  eye ; 
Perhaps  a  simple  sentiment  has  brought 
More  to  him  than  your  arts  had  ever  taught. 
What  are  the  petty  triumphs  Art  has  given, 
To  eyes  familiar  with  the  naked  heaven  ? 

All  has  been  seen— dock,  railroad,  and  canal, 
Fort,  market,  bridge,  college,  and  arsenal, 
Asylum,  hospital,  and  cotton-mill. 
The  theatre,  the  lighthouse,  and  the  jail. 
The  Braves  each  novelty,  reflecting,  saw, 
And  now  and  then  growled  out  the  earnest  yaw ; 
And  now  the  time  is  come,  'tis  understood, 
When,  having  seen  and  thought  so  much,  a  talk 

may  do  some  good. 

Awelldressed  mobhavethrongedthesiijht  togreet, 
And  motley  figures  throng  the  spacious  street; 
Majestical  and  calm  through  a!l  they  stride, 
Wearing  the  blanket  with  a  monarch's  pride ; 
The  gazers  stare  and  shrug,  but  can't  deny 
Their  noble  forms  and  blameless  symmetry 
If  the  Great  Spirit  their  morale  has  slighted. 
And  wigwam  smoke  their  mental  culture  blighted, 
Yet  the  physique,  at  least,  perfection  reaches, 
In   wilds  where   neither   Combe   nor   Spurzheim 

teaches — 

Where  whispering  trees  invite  man  to  the  chase, 
And  bounding  deer  allure  him  to  the  race. 

Would  thou  hadst  seen  it !     That  dark,  stately 
Whose  ancestors  enjoyed  all  this  fair  land,  [band, 
Whence  they,  by  force  or  fraud,  were  made  to  flee, 
Are  brought,  the  whiN*  man's  victory  to  «ee 
251 


252 


MARGARET    FULLER,    MARCHIONESS    D'OSSOLI. 


Can  kind  emotions  in  their  proud  hearts  glow, 
As  through  these  realms,  now  decked  by  art,  the}7  go? 
The  church,  the  school,  the  railroad,  and  the  mart — 
Can  these  a  pleasure  to  their  minds  impart  1 
All  once,  was  theirs — earth,  ocean,  forest,  sky — 
How  can  they  joy  in  what  now  meets  the  eye  ] 
Not  yet  Re'igion  has  unlocked  the  soul, 
Nor  each  has  learned  to  glory  in  the  whole  ! 

Must  they  not  think,  so  strange  and  sad  their  lot, 
That  they  by  the  Great  Spirit  are  forgot  ] 
From  the  far  border  to  which  they  are  driven, 
They  might  look  up  in  trust  to  the  clear  heaven  ; 
But  here — what  tales  doth  every  object  tell 
Where  Massasoit  sleeps — where  Philip  fell  ! 

We  take  our  turn,  and  the  philosopher 
Sees  through  the  clouds  a  hand  which  can  not  err, 
An  unimproving  race,  with  all  their  graces 
And  all  their  vices,  must  resign  their  places; 
And  human  culture  rolls  its  onward  flood 
Over  the  broad  plains  steeped  in  Indian  blood. 
Such  thoughts  steady  our  faith — yet  there  will  rise 
Some  natural  tears  into  the  calmest  eyes — 
Which  gaze  where  forest  princes  haughty  go, 
Made  for  a  gaping  crowd  a  raree  show. 

But  this  a  scene  seems  where,  in  courtesy, 
The  pale  face  with  the  forest  prince  could  vie, 
For  One  presided  who,  for  tact  and  grace, 
In  any  age  had  held  an  honored  place — 
In  Beauty's  own  dear  day,  had  shone  a  polished 

Phidian  vase  ! 

Oft  have  I  listened  to  his  accents  bland, 
And  owned  the  magic  of  his  silvery  voice, 
In  all  the  graces  which  life's  arts  demand, 
Delighted  by  the  justness  of  his  choice. 
Not  his  the  stream  of  lavish,  fervid  thought — 
The  rhetoric  by  passion's  magic  wrought; 
Not  his  the  massive  style,  the  lion  port, 
Which  with  the  granite  class  of  mind  assort; 
But,  in  a  range  of  excellence  his  own, 
With  all  the  charms  to  soft  persuasion  known, 
Amid  our  busy  people  we  admire  him — "elegant 

and  lone." 

He  scarce  needs  words,  so  exquisite  the  skill 
Which  modulates  the  tones  to  do  his  will, 
That  the  mere  sound  enough  would  charm  the  ear, 
And  lap  in  its  Eiysium  all  who  hear. 
The  intellectual  paleness  of  his  cheek, 

The  heavy  eyelids,  and  slow,  tranquil  smile, 
The  well  cut  lips  from  which  the  graces  speak, 

Fit  him  alike  to  win  or  to  beguile  ; 
Then  those  words  so  well  chosen,  fit,  though  few, 
Their  linked  sweetness  as  our  thoughts  pursue, 
We  deem  them  spoken  pearls,  or  radiant  diamond 

dew. 

And  never  yet  did  I  admire  the  power 
Winch  makes  so  lustrous  every  threadbare  theme — 
Which  won  for  Lafayette  one  other  hour, 
And  e'en  on  July  fourth  could  cast  a  gleam — 
As  now,  when  I  beho'.d  him  play  the  host 
Writh  all  the  dignity  which  red  men  boast — 
With  all  the  courtesy  the  whites  have  lost : 
Assume  the  very  hue  of  savage  mind, 

Yet  in  rude  accents  show  the  thought  refined 

Assume  the  naivete  of  infant  age, 

A  nd  in  such  prattle  seem  still  more  a  sage  , 


The  golden  mean  with  tact  unerring  seized, 

A  courtly  critic  shone,  a  simple  savage  pleased; 

The  stoic  of  the  woods  his  skill  confessed, 

As  all  the  Father  answered  in  his  breast, 

To  the  sure  mark  the  silver  arrow  sped, 

The  man  without  a  tear  a  tear  has  shed  : 

And  thou  hadst  wept,  had  thou  been  there,  to  see 

How  true  one  sentiment  must  ever  be, 

In  court  or  camp,  the  city  or  the  wild,         [child. 

To  rouse  the  father's  heart,  you  need  but  name  his 

'T  was  a  fair  scene — and  acted  well  by  all : 
So  here's  a  health  to  Indian  braves  so  tall — 
Our  governor  and  Boston  people  all  ! 


THE  SACRED  MARRIAGE. 

AXD  has  another's  life  as  large  a  scope  1 
It  may  give  due  fulfilment  to  thy  hope, 
And  every  portal  to  the  unknown  may  ope. 
If,  near  this  other  life,  thy  inmost  feeling 
Trembles  with  fateful  prescience  of  revealing 
The  future  Deity,  time  is  still  concealing : 
If  thou  feel  thy  whole  force  drawn  more  and  more 
To  launch  that  other  bark  on  seas  without  a  shore, 
And  no  still  secret  must  be  kept  in  store — 
If  meannesses  that  dim  each  temporal  deed, 
The  dull  decay  that  mars  the  fleshly  weed,  [seed— 
And  flower  of  love  that  seems  to  fall  and  leave  no 
Hide  never  the  full  presence  from  thy  sight 
Of  mutnal  aims  and  tasks,  ideals  bright,     [blight. 
Which  feed  their  roots  to-day  on  all  this  seeming 
Twin  stars  that  mutual  circle  in  the  heaven, 
Two  parts  for  spiritual  concord  given 
Twin  sabbaths  that  inlock  the  sacred  seven- 
Still  looking  to  the  centre  for  the  cause, 
Mutual  light  giving  to  draw  out  the  powers, 
And  learning  all  the  other  groups  by  cognizance  of 

one  another's  laws  : 

The  parent  love  the  wedded  love  includes, 
The  one  permits  the  two  their  mutual  moods, 
The  two  each  other  know  mid  myriad  multitudes; 
With  childlike  intellect  discerning  love, 
And  mutual  action  energizing  love, 
In  myriad  forms  affiliating  love. 
A  world  whose  seasons  bloom  from  pole  to  pole, 
A  force  which  knows  both  starting-point  and  goal. 
A  home  in  heaven — the  union  in  the  soul. 


SONNETS. 

I.    ORPHEUS. 

EACH  Orpheus  must  to  the  depths  descend, 

For  only  thus  the  poet  can  be  wise, 
Must  make  the  sad  Persephone  his  friend, 

And  buried  love  to  second  life  arise ; 
Again  his  love  must  lose  through  too  much  love 

Must  lose  his  life  by  living  life  too  true, 
For  what  he  sought  below  is  passed  above, 

Already  done  is  all  that  he  would  do; 
Must  tune  all  being  with  his  single  lyre, 

Must  melt  all  rocks  free  from  their  primal  pain, 
Must  search  all  Nature  with  his  one  soul's  fire, 

Must  bind  anew  all  forms  in  heavenly  chain. 
If  he  already  sees  what  he  must  do, 
"N  Veil  may  he  shade  his  eyes  from  the  far-shining  view 


MARGARET    FULLER,    MARCHIONESS    D'OSSOLI. 


253 


TI.    INSTRUMENTAL    MUSIC. 

THK  charms  of  melody,  in  simple  airs, 

By  human  voices  sung,  are  always  felt; 

With  thoughts  responsive  careless  hearers  melt, 
Of  secret  ills,  which  our  frail  nature  bears. 

We  listen,  weep,  forget.     But  when  the  throng 
Of  a  great  master's  thoughts,  above  the  reach 
Of  words  or  colors,  wire  and  wood  can  teach 

By  laws  which  to  the  spirit-world  belong — • 
When  several  parts,  to  te  I  one  mood  combined, 

Flash  meaning  on  us  we  can  ne'er  express, 
Giving  to  matter  subtlest  powers  of  mind, 

Superior  joys  attentive  souls  confess: 
The  harmony  which  suns  and  stars  obey,      [day. 
Blesses  our  earthbound  state  with  visions  of  supernal 


III.     BEETHOVEX. 

MOST  intellectual  master  of  the  art, 
Which,  best  of  all,  teaches  the  mind  of  man 
The  universe  in  all  its  varied  plan — 

What  strangely  mingled  thoughts  thy  strains  impart! 

Here  the  faint  tenor  thrills  the  inmost  heart, 
There  the  rich  bass  the  Reason's  balance  shows ; 
Here  breathes  the  softest  sigh  that  Love  e'er  knows; 

There  sudden  fancies,  seeming  without  chart, 
Float  into  widest  breezy  interludes; 

The  ;  ast  is  all  forgot — hopes  sweetly  breathe, 

And  our  whole  being  glows — when  lo !   beneath 
The  flowery  brink,  Despair's  deep  sob  concludes  ! 

Startled,  we  strive  to  free  us  from  the  chain — 

Notes  of  high  triumph  swell,  and  we  are  thine  again ! 


IV.    MOZART. 

IF  to  the  intellect  and  passions  strong 
Beethoven  speak,  with  such  resistless  power, 
Making  us  share  the  full  creative  hour, 

When  his  wand  fixed  wild  Fancy's  mystic  throng, 

Oh,  Nature's  finest  lyre  !  to  thee  belong 
The  deepest,  softest  tones  of  tenderness, 
Whose  purity  the  listening  angels  bless, 

With  silvery  clearness  of  seraphic  song. 

Sad  are  those  chords,  oh  heavenward  striving  soul ! 
A  love,  which  never  found  its  home  on  earth, 
Pensively  vibrates,  even  in  thy  mirth, 

And  gentle  laws  thy  lightest  notes  control ; 

Yet  dear  that  sadness !  spheral  concords  felt 

Purify  most  those  hearts  which  most  they  melt. 


v.    TO  ALLSTON'S  PICTURE,  "THE   BRIDE." 

NOT  long  enough  we  gaze  upon  that  face, 

Not  pure  enough  the  life  with  which  we  live, 
To  be  full  tranced  by  that  softest  grace, 

To  win  all  pearls  those  lucid  depths  can  give ; 
Here  Fantasy  has  borrowed  wings  of  Even, 

And  stolen  Twilight's  latest,  sacred  hues, 
A  soul  has  visited  the  woman's  heaven, 

Where  palest  lights  a  silver  sheen  diffuse. 
To  see  aright  the  vision  which  he  saw, 

We  must  ascend  as  high  upon  the  stair 
Which  leads  the  human  thought  to  heavenly  law, 

And  see  the  flower  bloom  in  its  natal  air ; 
Thus  might  we  read  aright  the  lip  and  brow, 
Where  Thought  and  Love  beam  too  su!  Juing  for 
our  senses  now. 


TO  EDITH,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

IF  the  same  star  our  fates  together  bind, 

W^hy  are  we  thus  divided,  mind  from  mind  1 

If  the  same  law  one  grief  to  both  impart, 

How  couldst  thou  grieve  a  trusting  mother's  heart  1 

Our  aspiration  seeks  a  common  aim, 

Why  were  we  tempered  of  such  differing  fratii0  ? 

— But  'tis  too  late  to  turn  this  wrong  to  right; 

Too  cold,  too  damp,  too  deep,  has  fallen  the  night ! 

And  yet,  the  angel  of  my  life  replies — 

"  Upon  that  night  a  Morning  Star  shall  rise, 

Fairer  than  *hat  which  ruled  the  temporal  birth, 

Undimmed  by  vapors  of  the  dreamy  earth." 

It  says,  that,  where  a  heart  thy  claim  denies, 

Genius  shall  read  its  secret  ere  it  flies; 

The  earthly  form  may  vanish  from  thy  side, 

Pure  love  will  make  thee  still  the  Spirit's  bride. 

And  thou,  ungentle,  yet  much-loving  child, 

Whose  heart  still  shows  the  '  untamed  haggard  wild,' 

A  heart  which  justly  makes  the  highest  claim, 

Too  easily  is  checked  by  transient  blame; 

Ere  such  an  orb  can  ascertain  its  sphere, 

The  ordeal  must  be  various  and  severe  ; 

My  prayers  attend  thee,  though  the  feet  may  fly, 

I  hear  thy  music  in  the  silent  sky. 

LINES  WRITTEN"  IN  ILLINOIS. 

FAMILIAR  to  the  chi'dish  mind  were  tales 

Of  rock-girt  isles  amid  a  desert  sea, 
Where  unexpected  stretch  the  flowery  vales 

To  soothe  the  shipwrecked  sailor's  misery. 
Fainting,  he  lay  upon  a  sandy  shore, 
And  fancied  that  all  hope  of  life  was  o'er ; 
But  let  him  patient  climb  the  frowning  wall, 
Within,  the  orange  glows  beneath  the  palm  tree  tall, 
And  all  that  Eden  boasted  waits  his  call. 
Almost  these  tales  seem  rea'ized  to-day, 
When  the  long  dullness  of  the  sultry  way, 
Where  independent  settlers'  careless  cheer 
Made  us  indeed  feel  we  were  strangers  here, 
Is  cheered  by  sudden  sight  of  this  fair  spot, 
On  which  improvement  yet  has  made  no  blot, 
But  Nature  all  astonished  stands,  to  find 
Her  plan  protected  by  the  human  mind. 
Blest  be  the  kindly  genius  of  the  scene  : 

The  river,  bending  in  unbroken  grace, 
The  stately  thickets,  with  their  pathways  green, 

Fair  lonely  trees,  each  in  its  fittest  place. 
Those  thickets  haunted  by  the  deer  and  fawn  ; 
Those  cloudlike  flights  of  birds  across  the  lawn; 
The  gentlest  breezes  here  delight  to  blow,  [the  show. 
And  sun  and  shower  and  star  are  emulous  to  deck 
Wondering,  as  Crusoe,  we  survey  the  land — 
Happier  than  Crusoe  we,  a  friendly  band : 
Blest  be  the  hand  that  reared  this  friendly  homt., 
The  heart  and  mind  of  him  to  whom  we  owe 
Hours  of  pure  peace  such  as  few  mortals  know, 
May  he  find  such,  should  he  be  led  to  roam— 
Be  tended  by  such  ministering  sprites — 
Enjoy  such  gayly  childish  days,  such  hopeful  nights 
And  yet,  amid  the  goods  to  mortals  given, 
To  give  those  goods  again  is  most  like  Heaven 


254 


MARGARET    FULLER,    MARCHIONESS    D'OSSOLI. 


ON   LEAVING  THE  WEST. 


t.r,,  ye  soft  and  sumptuous  solitudes  ! 
Ye  fairy  distances,  ye  lordly  woods, 
Haunted  by  paths  like  those  that  Poussin  knew, 
When  after  his  all  gazers  eyes  he  drew: 
I  go  —  and  if  I  never  more  may  steep 
An  eager  heart  in  your  enchantments  deep, 
Yet  ever  to  itself  that  heart  may  say, 
Be  not  exacting  —  thou  hast  lived  one  day  — 
Hast  looked  on  that  which  matches  with  thy  mood, 
Impassioned  sweetness  of  full  being's  flood, 
Where  nothing  checked  the  bold  yet  gentle  wave, 
Where  naught  repelled  the  lavish  love  that  gave. 
A  tender  blessing  lingers  o'er  the  scene, 
Like  some  young  mother's  thought,  fond,  yet  serene, 
And  through  its  life  new  born  our  lives  have  been. 
Once  more  farewell  —  a  sad,  a  sweet  farewell; 
And  if  I  never  must  behold  you  more, 
In  other  worlds  I  will  not  cease  to  tell 
The  rosary  I  here  have  numbered  o'er; 
And  bright-haired  Hope  will  lend  a  gladdened  ear, 
And  Love  will  free  him  from  the  grasp  of  Fear, 
And  Gorgon  critics,  while  the  tale  they  hear, 
Shall  dew  their  stony  glances  with  a  tear, 
If  I  but  catch  one  echo  from  your  spell  : 
And  so  farewell  —  a  grateful,  sad  farewell  ! 


GANYMEDE  TO  HIS  EAGLE* 

SUGGESTED   BY  A  WORK   OF   THORWAI.DSEN'S. 

UPON-  the  rocky  mountain  stood  the  boy, 

A  goblet  of  pure  water  in  his  hand, 
His  face  and  form  spoke  him  one  made  for  joy, 

A  willing  servant  to  sweet  love's  command ; 
But  a  strange  pain  was  written  on  his  brow, 
And  thrilled  throughout  his  silver  accents  now: 

"  My  bird."  he  cries,  "  my  destined  brother  friend, 

Oh  whither  fleets  to-day  thy  wayward  flight  ] 
Hast  thou  forgotten  that  I  here  attend, 

From  the  full  noon  until  this  sad  twilight  1 
A  hundred  times,  at  least,  from  the  clear  spring, 

Since  the  full  noon  o'er  hill  and  valley  glowed, 
I've  filled  the  vase  which  our  Olympian  king 

Upon  my  care  for  thy  sole  use  bestowed  ; 
That,  at  the  moment  when  thou  shouldst  descend, 
A  pure  refreshment  might  thy  thirst  attend. 

Hast  th->u  forgotten  earth — forgotten  me, 

Thy  fellow  bondsman  in  a  royal  cause, 
Who,  from  the  sadness  of  infinity, 

Only  with  thee  can  know  that  peaceful  pause 
In  which  we  catch  the  flowing  strain  of  love 
Which  binds  our  dim  fates  to  the  throne  of  Jove  1 
Before  I  saw  thee  I  was  like  the  May, 

Longing  for  summer  that  must  mar  its  bloom, 
Or  like  the  morning  star  that  calls  the  day, 

Whose  glories  to  its  promise  are  the  tomb; 
And  as  the  eager  fountain  rises  higher, 

To  throw  itself  more  strongly  back  to  earth, 
Still,  as  more  sweet  and  full  rose  my  desire, 

More  fondly  it  reverted  to  its  birth  ; 


•  Composed  on  the  height  called  the  Engle's  NCR,  Ore 
gon.  Rock  River,  July  4,  1813. 


For,  what  the  rosebud  seeks  tells  not  the  rase — 
The  meaning  foretold  by  the  boy  the  man  can  not 

disclose. 
I  was  all  spring,  for  in  my  being  dwelt 

Eternal  youth,  where  flowers  are  the  fruit; 
Full  feeling  was  the  thought  of  what  was  fel* — 

Its  music  was  the  meaning  of  the  lute : 
But  heaven  and  earth  such  life  will  still  deny, 
For  earth,  divorced  from  heaven,  still  asks  the  ques 

tion,  Why  1 
Upon  the  highest  mountains  my  young  feet 

Ached,  that  no  pinions  from  their  lightness  grew 
My  starlike  eyes  the  stars  would  fondly  greet, 

Yet  win  no  greeting  from  the  circling  blue  ; 
Fair,  self-subsi.stent  each  in  its  own  sphere, 

They  had  no  care  that  there  was  none  for  me : 
Alike  to  them  that  I  was  far  or  near, 

Alike  to  them,  time  and  eternity. 
But,  from  the  violet  of  lower  air, 

Sometimes  an  answer  to  my  wishing  came, 
Those  lightning  births  my  nature  seemed  to  share, 

They  told  the  secrets  of  its  fiery  frame — 
The  sudden  messengers  of  hate  and  love, 
The  thunderbolts  that  arm  the  hand  of  Jove, 
And  strike  sometimes  the  sacred  spire,  and  strike 

the  sacred  grove. 

Come  in  a  moment,  in  a  moment  gone, 
They  answered  me,  then  left  me  still  more  lone ; 
They  told  me  that  the  thought  which  ruled  the  world 
As  yet  no  sail  upon  its  course  had  furled, 
That  the  creation  was  but  just  begun, 
New  leaves  still  leaving  from  the  primal  one, 
But  spoke  not  of  the  goal  to  which  my  rapid  wheels 

would  run. 

Still,  still  my  eyes,  though  tearfully,  I  strained 
To  the  far  future  which  my  heart  contained, 
And  no  dull  doubt  my  proper  hope  profaned. 
At  last,  oh  bliss,  thy  living  form  I  spied, 

Then  a  mere  speck  upon  a  distant  sky ; 
Yet  my  keen  glance  discerned  its  noble  pride, 

And  the  full  answer  of  that  sun-filled  eye  : 
I  knew  it  was  the  wing  that  must  upbear 
My  earthlier  form  into  the  realms  of  air. 
Thou  knovvest  how  we  gained  that  beauteous  height, 
Where  dwells  the  monarch  of  the  sons  of  light, 
Thou  knowest  he  declared  us  two  to  be 
The  chosen  servants  of  his  ministry — 
Thou  as  his  messenger,  a  sacred  sign 
Of  conquest,  or  with  omen  more  benign, 
To  give  its  due  weight  to  the  righteous  cause, 
To  express  the  verdict  of  Olympian  laws. 
And  I  wait  upon  the  lonely  spring, 

Which  slakes  the  thirst  of  bards  to  whom  'tis  given 
The  destined  dues  of  hopes  divine  to  sing, 

And  weave  the  needed  chain  to  bind  to  heaven 
Only  from  such  could  be  obtained  a  draught 
For  him  who  in  his  early  home  from  JoveV  own 

cup  has  quaffed. 

To  wait,  to  wait,  but  not  to  wait  too  long, 
Till  heavy  grows  the  burthen  of  a  song; 
Oh  bird  !  too  long  hast  thou  been  gone  to-day, 
My  feet  are  weary  of  their  frequent  way — 
The  spell  that  opes  the  spring  my  tongue  no  more 


MARGARET  FULLER,  MARCHIONESS  D'OSSOLI. 


255 


ff  soon  thou  com'st  not,  night  will  fall  around, 
My  head  with  a  sad  slumber  will  be  bound, 
And  the  pure  draught  be  spilt  upon  the  ground. 
Remember  that  I  am  not  yet  divine, 
Long  years  of  service  to  the  fatal  Nine 
Are  yet  to  make  a  Delphian  vigor  mine. 
Oh,  make  them  not  too  hard,  thou  bird  of  Jove, 
Answer  the  stripling's  hope,  confirm  his  love, 
Receive  the  service  in  which  he  delights, 
And  bear  him  often  to  the  serene  heights, 
Where  hands  that  were  so  prompt  in  serving  thee, 
Shall  be  allowed  the  highest  ministry, 
And  Rapture  live  with  bright  Fide.ity. 


LIFE  A  TEMPLE. 

THE  temple  round 
Spread  green  the  pleasant  ground  ; 

The  fair  colonnade 
Be  of  pure  marble  pillars  made ; 
Strong  to  sustain  the  roof, 

Time  and  tempest  proof, 
Yet  amid  which  the  lightest  breese 
Can  play  as  it  please  : 
The  audience  hall 
Be  free  to  all 
Who  revere 

The  Power  worshipped  here, 
Sole  guide  of  youth, 
Unswerving  Truth : 
In  the  inmost  shrine 
Stands  the  image  divine, 

Only  seen 
By  those  whose  deeds  have  worthy  been — 

Priestlike  clean. 
Those,  who  initiated  are, 
Declare, 
As  the  hours 

Usher  in  varying  hopes  and  powers ; 
It  changes  its  face, 
It  changes  its  age — 
Now  a  young  beaming  grace, 
Now  Nestorian  sage  : 
But,  to  the  pure  in  heart, 
This  shape  of  primal  art 
In  age  is  fair, 
In  youth  seems  wise, 
Beyond  compare, 
Above  surprise : 
What  it  teaches  native  seems, 

Its  new  lore  our  ancient  dreams  ; 
Incense  rises  from  the  ground, 

Music  flows  around  ; 

Firm  rest  the  feet  below,  clear  gaze  the  eyes  above, 
When  Truth  to  point  the  way  through  life  assumes 

the  wand  of  Love  ; 

But.  if  she  cast  aside  the  robe  of  green, 
Winter's  silver  sheen, 
White,  pure  as  light, 

Makes  gentle  shroud- as  worthy  weed  as  bridal 
robe  had  been. 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 

Foil  the  Power  to  whom  we  bow 
Has  given  its  pledge  that,  if  not  now, 
They  of  pure  and  steadfast  mind, 
By  faith  exalted,  truth  refined, 
Shall  hear  all  music  loud  and  clear, 
Whose  first  notes  they  ventured  here. 
Then  fear  not  thou  to  wind  the  horn, 
Though  elf  and  gnome  thy  courage  scorn 
Ask  for  the  castle's  king  and  queen — 
Though  rabble  rout  may  rush  between, 
Beat  thee  senseless  to  the  ground, 
in  the  dark  beset  thee  round — 
Persist  to  ask  and  it  will  come, 
Seek  not  for  rest  in  humbler  home : 
So  shalt  thou  see  what  few  have  seen, 
The  palace  home  of  King  and  Queen. 


GUNHILDA. 

A  MATHER  bat  beneath  the  tree, 
Tear-bedewed  her  pale  cheeks  be 
And  she  sigheth  heavily. 

From  forth  the  wood  into  the  light 
A  hunter  strides  with  carol  light, 
And  a  glance  so  bold  and  bright. 

He  careless  stopped  and  eyed  the  maid  • 
"  Why  weepest  thou!"  he  gently  said, 
"  I  love  thee  well — be  not  afraid." 

He  takes  her  hand,  and  leads  her  on ; 
She  should  have  waited  there  alone, 
For  he  was  not  her  chosen  one. 

He  leans  her  head  upon  his  breast : 
She  knew  'twas  not  her  home  of  rest, 
But  ah !  she  had  been  sore  distressed. 

The  sacred  stars  looked  sadly  down ; 
The  parting  moon  appeared  to  frown, 
To  see  thus  dimmed  the  diamond  crown. 

Then  from  the  thicket  starts  a  deer: 
The  huntsman,  seizing  on  his  spear, 
Cries,  "  Maiden,  wait  thou  for  me  here." 

She  sees  him  vanish  into  night, 

She  starts  from  sleep  in  deep  affright, 

For  it  was  not  her  own  true  knight ! 

Though  but  in  dream  Gunhilda  failed, 
Though  but  a  fancied  ill  assailed, 
Though  she  but  fancied  fault  bewailed — 
Yet  thought  of  day  makes  dream  of  night 
She  is  not  worthy  of  the  knight. 
The  inmost  altar  burns  not  bright. 
If  loneliness  thou  canst  not  bear, 
Can  not  the  dragon's  venom  dare, 
Of  the  pure  meed  thou  shouldst  despair. 
Now  sadder  that  lone  maiden  sighs, 
Far  bitterer  tears  profane  her  eyes,, 
Crushed  in  the  dust  her  heart's  flower  lie*. 


LYDIA    JANE    PE1RSON. 


LYKTA  JANE  WHEELER,  now  Mrs.  PEIR- 
SON,  was  born  in  Middletown,  Connecticut, 
and  when  sixteen  years  of  age  removed  with 
her  pa  rents  to  Canandaigua,  New  York, where 
she  was  soon  after  married.  Her  husband 
purchased  a  tract  of  land  in  Liberty,  Tioga 
county,  one  of  the  wildest  districts  of  north 
ern  Pennsylvania,  and  commenced  there  his 
career  as  a  pioneer  farmer,  five  miles  from 
any  other  habitation,  and  nearly  twenty  from 
any  village.  Mrs.  Peirson  appears  to  have 
been  ill  fitted  for  such  a  life,  but  the  solitude 
of  the  forest  was  cheered  by  the  presence  of 
the  Muse,  and  for  several  years  her  contri 
butions  appeared  frequently  in  The  New- 
Yorker,  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
and  other  periodicals.  A  pleasing  incident 
in  her  history  is  related  in  the  following  com 
munication  from  a  correspondent :  "  At  a  pe 
riod  when  the  best  abilities  of  Pennsylvania 
were  active  in  recommending  plans  for  the 
general  education  of  the  people,  Mr.  Thad- 
deus  Stevens,  now  a  member  of  Congress, 
but  then  a  representative  in  the  state  legis 
lature,  made  a  masterly  speech  upon  the  sub 
ject,  which  was  seconded  by  a  spirited  and 
elegant  poem  that  attracted  general  atten 
tion.  Judge  Ellis  Lewis,  so  well  known  as 
one  of  our  most  accomplished  jurists,  was 
deeply  interested  in  the  movement,  and  ac 


tively  engaged  in  efforts  to  induce  its  suc 
cess.  Pleased  with  the  poem,  he  made  in 
quiries  respecting  its  author,  and  learned  that 
her  husband,  by  a  series  of  misfortunes,  had 
been  reduced  to  a  condition  of  extreme  pe 
cuniary  embarrassment,  and  that  his  family 
•was  without  a  home.  Meeting  Mr.  Stevens, 
who  is  scarcely  less  known  for  his  generosity 
than  for  those  splendid  powers  which  have 
raised  him  to  so  high  a  rank  in  his  profes 
sion  and  among  the  managers  of  affairs,  he 
communicated  to  him  the  circumstances,  and 
suggested  that  something  should  he  done  for 
the  relief  of  the  poetess.  Mr.  Stevens  au 
thorized  the  judge  to  consult  with  Mrs.  Peir 
son,  purchase  for  her  such  a  farm  as  she 
miijfht  select,  and  draw  on  him  for  the  cost. 
Neither  Judge  Lewis  nor  Mr.  Stevens  had 
ever  seen  her,  but  the  former  apprized  her 
of  his  commission,  and  the  design  was  exe 
cuted.  She  chose  a  beautiful  little  estate 
which  chanced  to  be  in  the  market ;  it  was 
purchased  by  Judge  Lewis  ;  the  deed,  drawn 
to  Thaddeus  Stevens  in  trust  for  Lydia  Jane 
Peirson  and  her  heirs  and  assigns,  was  sent 
to  her  ;  and  she  now  lives  upon  it  in  pleasant 
independence." 

Mrs.  Peirson  has  published  two  volumes 
of  poems  —  Forest  Leaves,  in  1845,  and  The 
Forest  Minstrel,  in  1847. 


MY  SONG. 

'Tis  not  for  fame 
That  I  awaken  with  my  simple  lay 
The  echoes  of  the  forest.     I  but  sing 
As  sings  the  bird,  that  pours  her  native  strain, 
Because  her  soul  is  made  of  melody ; 
And  lingering  in  the  bowers,  her  warblings  seem 
To  gather  round  her  all  the  tuneful  forms    [flowers, 
Whose  bright  wings  shook  rich  incense  from  the 
And  balmy  verdure  of  the  sweet  young  Spring, 
O'er  which  the  glad  Day  shed  his  brightest  smile, 
And  Night  her  purest  tears.     I  do  but  sing 
Like  that  sad  bird  who  in  her  loneliness 
Pours  out  in  song  the  treasures  of  her  soul, 
Wbichelse  would  burst herbosom,which  hasnaught 
On  which  to  lavish  the  warm  streams  that  gush 
Up  fioin  her  trembling  heart,  and  pours  them  foi  h 
Up<>u  the  sighing  winds  in  fitful  strains. 


Perchance  one  pensive  spirit  loves  the  song, 
And  lingers  in  the  twilight  near  the  wood 
To  list  her  plaintive  sonnet,  which  unlocks 
The  sealed  fountain  of  a  hidden  grief. 
That  pensive  listener,  or  some  playful  child, 
May  miss  the  lone  bird's  song,  what  time  her  wings 
Are  folded  in  the  calm  and  silent  sleep, 
Above  her  broken  heart.    Then,  though  they  weep 
In  her  deserted  bower,  and  hang  rich  wreaths 
Of  ever-living  flowers  upon  her  grave, 
What  will  it  profit  her  who  would  have  slept 
As  deep  and  sweet  without  them  ? 

Oh  !  how  vain 

With  promised  garlands  for  the  sepulchre, 
To  think  to  cheer  the  soul,  whose  daily  prayer 
Is  but  for  bread  and  peace  !  whose  trembling  hopes 
For  immortality  ask  one  green  leaf 
From  off  the  healing  trees  that  grow  beside 
The  pure,  bright  river  of  Eternal  Life. 
255 


LVDIA   JANE    PEIRSON. 


257 


MY  MUSE. 

BORN  of  the  sunlight  and  the  dew, 

That  met  amongst  the  flowers, 
That  on  the  river  margin  grew 

Beneath  the  willow  bowers ; 
Her  earliest  pillow  was  a  wreath 

Of  violets  newly  blown, 
And  the  meek  incense  of  their  breath 

At  once  became  her  own. 

Her  cradle-hymn  the  river  sung, 

In  that  same  liquid  tone 
With  which  it  gave,  when  Earth  was  young, 

Praise  to  the  Living  One. 
The  breeze  that  lay  upon  its  breast 

Responded  with  a  sigh  ; 
And  there  the  ring-dove  built  her  nest 

And  sung  her  lullaby. 

The  only  nurse  she  ever  knew 

WTas  Nature,  free  and  wild  : 
Such  was  her  birth,  and  so  she  grew 

A  moody,  wayward  child, 
WTho  loved  to  climb  the  rocky  steep, 

To  ford  the  mountain-stream, 
To  lie  beside  the  sounding  deep, 

And  weave  the  magic  drearn. 

She  loved  the  path  with  shadows  dim, 

Beneath  the  dark-leaved  trees, 
Where  Nature's  winged  poets  sing 

Their  sweetest  melodies ; 
To  dance  amongst  the  pensile  stems 

Where  blossoms  bright  and  sweet 
Threw  diamonds  from  their  diadems 

Upon  her  fairy  feet. 

She  loved  to  watch  the  day-star  float 

Upon  the  aerial  sea, 
Till  Morning  sunk  his  pearly  boat 

In  floods  of  radiancy  ; 
To  see  the  angel  of  the  storm 

Upon  his  wind-winged  car, 
With  dark  clouds  wrapped  around  his  form, 

Come  shouting  from  afar ; 

And  pouring  treasures  rich  and  free, 

The  pure,  refreshing  rain, 
Till  every  weed  and  forest-tree 

Could  boast  its  diamond  chain  : 
Then  rising,  with  the  hymn  of  praise, 

That  swelled  from  hill  and  dale, 
Display  the  rainbow,  sign  of  peace, 

Upon  its  misty  veil. 

She  loved  the  waves'  deep  utterings — 

And  gazed  with  phrensied  eye 
When  Night  shook  lightning  from  his  wings, 

And  winds  went  sobbing  by. 
Full  oft  I  chid  the  wayward  child, 

Her  wanderings  to  restrain  ; 
And  sought  her  airy  limbs  to  bind 

With  Caution's  worldly  chain. 

I  bade  her  stay  within  my  cot, 

And  plv  the  housewife's  art: 
She  heard  me,  but  she  heeded  not— • 

Oh,  who  can  bind  the  heart ! 
17 


I  told  her  she  had  none  to  guide 

Her  inexperienced  feet 
To  where,  through  Tempe's  valley,  glide 

Castalia's  waters  sweet ; 

No  son  of  Fame,  to  take  her  hand 

And  lead  her  blushing  forth, 
Proclaiming  to  the  laurelled  band 

A  youthful  sister's  worth  ; 
That  there  were  none  to  help  her  climb 

The  steep  and  toilsome  way, 
To  where,  above  the  mists  of  Time, 

Shines  Genius'  living  ray  ; 

W7here,  wreathed  with  never-fading  flowers, 

The  harp  immortal  lies, 
Filling  the  souls  that  reach  those  bowers 

With  heavenly  melodies. 
I  warned  her  of  the  cruel  foes 

That  throng  that  rugged  path, 
Where  many  a  thorn  of  misery  grows, 

And  tempests  wreak  their  wrath. 

I  told  her  of  the  serpents  dread, 

With  malice-pointed  fangs, 
Of  yellow-blossomed  weeds  that  shed 

Derision's  maddening  pangs ; 
And  of  the  broken*  mouldering  lyres 

Thrown  carelessly  aside, 
Telling  the  winds,  with  shivering  wires, 

How  noble  spirits  died  ! 

I  said,  her  sandals  were  not  meet 

Such  journey  to  essay — 
(There  should  be  gold  beneath  the  feet 

That  tempt  Fame's  toilsome  way  :) 
But  while  I  spoke,  her  burning  eye 

Was  flashing  in  the  light 
That  shone  upon  that  mountain  high, 

Insufferably  b  ight. 

While  streaming  from  the  Eternal  Lyre, 

Like  distant  echoes  came 
A  strain  that  wrapped  her  soul  in  fire, 

And  thrilled  her  trembling  frame. 
She  sprang  away,  that  wayward  child — 

"  The  harp  !  the  harp  !"  she  cried  ; 
And  still  she  climbs  and  warbles  wild 

Along  the  mountain-side. 

TO  AN  AEOLIAN  HARP. 

THOU  Vr  like  my  heart,  thou  shivering  string 

Of  wild  and  plaintive  tone; 
Thrilled  by  the  slightest  zephyr's  wing, 

That  over  thee  is  thrown ; 
Replying  with  melodious  wail 

To  every  passing  sigh, 
And  pouring  to  the  fitful  gale 

Wild  bursts  of  harmony. 
Still  by  the  tempest's  torturing  power 

Thy  loftiest  notes  are  rung, 
And  in  the  stormy  midnight  horn 

Thy  holiest  hymns  are  sung. 
Thou'rt  like  my  heart,  thou  trembling  string 

That  lovest  the  gentle  breeze — 
Yet  yieldest  to  the  tempest-king 

Thy  loftiest  melodies. 


258 


LYDIA   JANE    PEIRSOA. 


TO  THE   WOOD  RORIX. 

Bnu)  of  the  twilight  hour! 

My  soul  goes  forth  to  mingle  with  thy  hvmn, 
Which  floats  like  slum  her  round  each  closing  flower, 

And  weaves  sweet  visions  through  the  forest  dim. 

Where  Day's  sweet  warblers  rest, 

Each  gently  rocking  on  the  waving  spray, 

Or  hovering  the  dear  fledglings  in  the  nest 
Without  one  care-pang  for  the  coming  day. 

Oh,  holy  bird,  and  sweet 

Angel  of  this  dark  forest,  whose  rich  notes 
Gush  like  a  fountain  in  the  still  retreat, 

O'er  which  a  world  of  mirrored  beauty  floats  : 

My  spirit  drinks  the  stream, 

Till  human  caves  and  passions  fade  away  ; 
And  all  my  soul  is  wrapped  in  one  sweet  dream 

Of  blended  love,  and  peace,  and  melody. 

Sweet  bird  !   that  wakest  alone 

The  moonlight  echoes  of  the  flowery  dells, 
When  every  other  winged  lute  is  flown, 

And  insects  sleeping  all  in  nodding  bells; 
I  bow  my  aching  head, 

And  wait  the  unction  of  thy  voice  of  love  : 
I  feel  it  o'er  my  weary  spirit  shed, 

Like  dew  from  balmy  flowers  that  bloom  above. 
Oh  !  when  the  loves  of  earth 

Are  silent  birds,  at  close  of  life's  long  day, 
May  some  pure  seraphim  of  heavenly  birth 

Bear  on  its  holy  hymn  my  soul  away  ! 


THE  WILD-WOOD  HOME. 

On,  show  me  a  place  like  the  wild-wood  home, 

Where  the  air  is  fragrant  and  free, 
And  the  first  pure  breathings  of  morning  come 

In  a  gush  of  melody. 
She  lifts  the  soft  fringe  from  her  dark-blue  eye 

With  a  radiant  smile  of  love, 
And  the  diamonds  that  o'er  her  bosom  lie 

Are  bright  as  the  gems  above ; 

Whore  Noon  lies  down  in  the  breezy  shade 

Of  the  glorious  forest  bowers, 
And  the  beautiful  birds  from  the  sunny  glades 

Sit  nodding  amongst  the  flowers, 
WThile  the  holy  child  of  the  mountain-spring 

Steals  past  with  a  murmured  song, 
And  the  honey-bees  sleep  in  the  bells  that  swing 

Its  garlanded  banks  along  ; 

Where  Day  steals  away  with  a  young  bride's  blush, 

To  the  soft  green  couch  of  Night, 
And  the  Moon  throws  o'er  with  a  ho'y  hush 

Her  curtain  of  gossamer  light; 
And  the  seraph  that  sings  in  the  hemlock  dell, 

Oh,  sweetest  of  birds  is  she, 
Fills  the  dewy  breeze  with  a  trancing  swell 

Of  melody  rich  and  free. 

Theie  are  sumptuous  mansions  with  marble  wails, 

Surmounted  by  glittering  towers, 
When-  fountains  play  in  the  perfumed  halls 

.Amongst  exotic  flowers. 


They  are  suitable  homes  for  the  haughty  in  mind, 
Yet  a  wild-wood  home  for  me,  [wind, 

Where  the  pure  bright  streams,  and  the  mountain- 
And  the  bounding  heart,  are  free ! 


ISABELLA. 

FROM   "OCKAN   MELODIES." 

I*  what  fair  grotto  of  the  deep-green  sea 

Where  rich  festoons  of  sea-flowers  darkly  wave, 
From  trees  of  brilliant  coral,  that  enwreathe 

Their  priceless  branches  through  the  marble  cave; 
Where  rings  for  evermore  the  solemn  knell 
Of  tinkling  waters  in  the  tuneful  shell; 
Where  pensive  sea-maids  come  in  groups  to  weep, 
Dost  thou,  my  precious  Isabella,  sleep  ] 
Thou  beautiful  enchantment!  thou  wert  like 

A  delicately  wrought  transparency, 
Through  which  all  angel-forms  of  tenderness 

Shone  in  the  light  of  maiden  purity ; 
Thy  cheek  was  Love's  pure  altar,  where  he  laid 
With  playful  hand  his  roses  pale  and  red, 
While  bathing  in  thine  eyes  of  liquid  blue, 
By  full-fringed  curtains  half  concealed  from  view. 
Spring  has  no  blossom  fairer  than  thy  form  ; 

Winter  no  snow-wreath  purer  than  thy  mind ; 
The  dewdrop  trembling  to  the  morning  beam 

Is  like  thy  smile,  pure,  transient,  heaven-refined  : 
But  ever  o'er  thy  soul  a  shadow  lay, 
Stiil  more  apparent  in  the  sunniest  day ; 
And  ever  when  to  bliss  thy  heart  beat  high, 
The  swell  subsided  in  a  plaintive  sigh. 
When  I  would  speak  of  bliss,  thou  wouldst  reply, 

"  Hush  !  for  I  feel  that  all  our  hopes  are  vain ; 
Some  spirit  whispers  that  I  soon  must  die, 

And  every  thrill  of  hope  is  mixed  with  pain." 
At  length  fhy  drooping  form  did  prove  too  well 
That  there  was  poison  in  life's  failing  well ; 
And  then  we  sought  youth's  freshness  to  renew 
Beneath  a  sky  of  softer  sun  and  dew. 
We  journeyed  with  thee  many  a  mournful  day, 

Till  thou  wert  weary  of  the  fruitless  toil, 
And  prayed  that  we  would  take  our  homeward  way 

That  thou  mightst  slumber  in  thy  native  soil. 
I  knelt  and  clasped  thee  in  a  wild  embrace, 
Concealing  in  thy  robes  my  anguished  face; 
Yet  sti.l  thy  snowy  shoulder  felt  my  tears, 
And  still  thine  ^Eolian  voice  was  in  mine  ears. 
I  felt  thy  presence — and  the  veil  of  life 

Was  still  between  the  coffin-scene  and  me ; 
And  Hope  and  Skill  maintained  their  anxious  strife, 

Contending  strongly  with  stern  Destinv. 
But  when  I  saw  thee  dead,  and  felt  the  chill 
Of  thy  white  hand,  so  nerveless  and  so  still, 
When  as  my  tears  fell  on  thy  lovely  face — 
There  was  no  voice,  no  smile,  no  consciousness ! 
And  when  I  saw  thy  form — so  fair,  so  pure, 

So  dear,  so  precious — cast  into  the  sea, 
0  God  of  mercy  '  how  did  I  endure 

The  torture  of  that  fearful  agony  ? 
Oh,  peerless  sleeper !  down  in  the  deep  sea 
My  heart  is  in  that  billowy  world  with  thee; 
And  still  my  spirit  lingers  on  the  wave 
That  rolls  between  my  bosom  and  thy  grave, 


LYDIA   JANE    PEIRSON. 


259 


SUNSET  IN  THE  FOREST. 

COME  now  unto  the  forest,  and  enjoy 
The  loveliness  of  Nature.     Look  abroad 
And  note  the  tender  beauty  and  repose 
Of  the  magnificent  in  earth  and  sky. 
See  what  a  radiant  smile  of  golden  light 
O'erspreads  the  face  of  heaven  ;  while  the  west 
Bums  like  a  living  ruby  in  the  ring 
Of  the  deep  green  horizon.     Now  the  shades 
Are  deepening  round  the  feet  of  the  tall  trees, 
Bending  the  head  of  the  pale  blossoms  down 
Upon  their  mother's  bosom,  where  the  breeze 
Comes  with  a  low,  sweet  hymn  and  balmy  kiss, 
To  lull  them  to  repose.     Look  now,  and  see 
How  every  mountain,  with  its  leafy  plume, 
Or  rocky  helm,  with  crest  of  gianl  pine, 
Is  veiled  with  floating  amber,  and  gives  back 
The  loving  smile  of  the  departing  sun, 
And  nods  a  calm  adieu.     Hark !  from  the  dell 
"Where  sombre  hemlocks  sigh  unto  the  streams, 
Which  with  its  everlasting  harmony 
Returns  each  tender  whisper,  what  a  gush 
Of  'liquid  melody,  like  soft,  rich  tones 
Of  flute  and  viol,  mingling  in  sweet  strains 
Of  love  and  rapture,  float  away  toward  heaven ! 
'T  is  the  ^Edoleo,  from  her  sweet  place 
Singing  to  Nature's  God  the  perfect  hymn 
Of  Nature's  innocence.     Does  it  not  seem 
That  Earth  is  listening  to  that  evening  song  1 — 
There's  such  a  hush  on  mountain, plain,  and  streams. 
Seems  not  the  Sun  to  linger  in  his  bower 
On  yonder  leafy  summit,  pouring  forth 
His  glowing  adoration  unto  God, 
Blent  with  that  evening  hymn,  while  every  flower 
Bows  gracefully,  and  mingles  with  the  strain 
Its  balmy  breathing'?     Have  you  looked  on  aught 
In  all  the  panoply  and  bustling  pride 
Of  the  dense  city  with  its  worldly  throng, 
So  soothing,  so  delicious  to  the  soul, 
So  like  the  ante-chamber  of  high  heaven, 
As  this  old  forest,  with  the  emerald  crown 
Which  it  has  worn  for  ages,  glittering 
With  the  bright  halo  of  departing  day. 
While  from  its  bosom  living  seraphim 
Are  hymning  gratitude  and  love  to  God  1 

THE  LAST  PALE   FLOWERS. 

TiiE  last  pale  flowers  are  drooping  on  the  stems, 

The  last  sere  leaves  fall  fluttering  from  the  tree, 
The  latest  groups  of  Summer's  flying  gems 

Are  hymning  forth  a  parting  melody. 
The  wings  are  heavy-winged  and  linger  by, 

WThispering  to  every  pale  and  sighing  leaf; 
The  sunlight  fal's  all  dim  and  tremblingly, 

Like  love's  fond  farewell  through  the  mist  of  grief. 
There  is  a  dreamy  presence  everywhere, 

As  if  of  spirits  passing  to  and  fro  ; 
We  almost  hear  their  voices  in  the  air, 

And  feel  their  balmy  pinions  touch  the  brow. 
We  feel  as  if  a  breath  might  put  aside 

The  shadowy  curtains  of  the  spirit-land, 
Revealing  all  the  loved  and  glorified 

That  Death  has  taken  from  Affection's  band. 


We  call  their  names,  and  listen  for  the  sound 

Of  their  sweet  voices'  tender  melodies ; 
We  look  almost  expectantly  around 

For  those  dear  faces  with  the  loving  eyes. 
We  feel  them  near  us,  and  spread  out  the  scroll 

Of  hearts  whose  feelings  they  were  wont  to  share, 
That  they  may  read  the  constancy  of  soul 

And  all  the  high,  pure  motives  written  there. 
And  then  we  weep,  as  if  our  cheek  were  pressed 

To  Friendship's  holy,  unsuspecting  heart, 
Which  understands  our  own.     Oh,  vision  blest ' 

Alas,  that  such  illusions  should  depart! 
I  oft  have  prayed  that  Death  may  come  to  me 

In  such  a  spiritual,  autumnal  day ; 
For  surely  it  would  be  no  agony 

With  all  the  beautiful  to  pass  away. 

TO  THE  \VOODS. 

CO>TE  to  the  woods  in  June — 

'Tis  happiness  to  rove 
When  Nature's  lyres  are  all  in  tune, 

And  life  all  full  of  love 

While  from  the  dewy  dells, 

And  every  wildwood  bower, 
A  thousand  little  feathered  bells 

Ring  out  the  matin  hour. 

Come  when  the  sun  is  high, 

And  earth  all  full  in  bloom, 
When  every  passing  summer  sigh 

Is  languid  with  perfume  ; 
When  by  the  mountain-brook 

The  watchful  red-deer  lies, 
And  spotted  fawns  in  mossy  nook 

Have  closed  their  wild,  bright  eyes , 
While  from  the  giant  tree, 

Arid  fairy  of  the  sod, 
A  dreamy  wind-harp  melody 

Speaks  to  the  soul  of  God — 
Whose  beauteous  gifts  of  love 

The  passing  hours  unfold, 
Till  e'en  the  sombre  hemlock-boughs 

Are  tipped  with  fringe  of  gold. 

Come  when  the  sun  is  set, 

And  see  along  the  west 
Heaven's  glory  streaming  through  the  gate 

By  which  he  passed  to  rest; 
While  brooklets,  as  they  flow 

Beneath  the  cool,  sweet  bowers, 
Sing  fairy  legends  soft  and  low 

To  groups  of  listening  flowers ; 
And  creeping,  formless  shades 

Make  distance  strange  and  dim, 
And  with  the  daylight  softly  fades 

The  wild-bird's  evening  hymn. 

Come  when  the  woods  are  dark, 

And  winds  go  fluttering  by, 
While  here  and  there  a  phantom  bark 

Floats  in  the  deep  blue  sky; 
While  gleaming  far  away 

Bevond  the  aerial  flood, 
Lies  in  its  starry  majesty 

The  city  of  our  God. 


JANE    T.    WORT  KING  TON. 


(Pied  1*47). 


JANE  TAYLOE  LOMAX,  a  daughter  of  the 
late  Colonel  Lomax  of  the  United  States 
army,  was  a  native  of  Virginia,  and  was  con 
nected  with  several  of  the  most  distinguished 
families  of  that  state.  She  was  educated  in 
different  parts  of  the  country,  as  the  exigen 
cies  of  the  military  service  led  to  changes 
of  residence  by  her  father,  and  her  large  op 
portunities  were  improved  by  a  genial  inter 
course  with  various  society,  and  a  minute 
and  loving  observation  of  nature.  Her  affec 
tions,  however,  always  centred  in  the  "Old 
Dominion,"  and  nearly  all  her  productions 
appeared  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messen 


ger,  which  was  edited  by  a  personal  friend,  at 
Richmond.  She  excelled  most  in  the  essay, 
and  there  are  few  better  illustrations  of  wo 
manly  feeling  and  intelligence  than  may  be 
found  in  her  numerous  compositions  of  this 
kind,  which  were  written  in  the  four  or  five 
years  of  her  literary  life.  Her  poems,  sim 
ple,  graceful,  and  earnest,  are  reflections  of 
a  character  eminently  truthful,  refined,  and 
pleasing.  She  was  married,  in  1843,  to  F. 
A.Worthington,  M.  D.,  of  Ohio,  and  she  died, 
lamented  by  a  wide  circle  of  literary  and  per 
sonal  friends,  in  1847.  No  collection  of  her 
works  has  been  published. 


TO  THE  PEAKS  OF  OTTER. 

FAIR  are  the  sunset  hues,  thy  dark  brow  blessing, 

Oh  mountain,  with  their  gift  of  golden  rays ; 
And  the  few  floating  clouds,  thy  crest  caressing, 

Seem  guardian  angels  to  my  raptured  gaze : 
[  have  looked  on  thee  through  the  saddest  tears 

That  ever  human  sorrow  taught  to  flow, 
And  thou  wilt  come,  in  life's  recalling  years, 

Linked  with  the  memory  of  my  deepest  wo. 

Yet  well  I  love  thee,  in  thy  silent  mystery, 

Thy  purple  shadows  and  thy  glowing  light — 
Thou  art  to  me  a  most  poetic  history 

Of  stillest  beauty  and  of  stormiest  might : 
I  owe  thee,  oh,  sublime  and  solemn  mountain, 

For  many  hours  of  vision  and  of  thought, 
Forpleasantdraughtsfrom  fancy's  gushing  fountain, 

For  bright  illusions  by  thy  presence  brought. 

And  more  I  thank  thee,  for  the  deeper  learning 

That  soothes  my  spirit  as  I  look  on  thee, 
For  thou  hast  laid  upon  my  soul's  wild  yearning 

The  holy  spell  of  thy  tranquillity  : 
I  shall  recall  thee  with  a  long  regretting, 

And  often  pine  to  see  thy  brow,  in  vain, 
While  Thought,  returning,  fond  and  unforgetting, 

Will  trace  thy  form  in  glory-tints  again. 

And  thou,  in  thine  experience,  all  material, 

Wilt  never  know  how  worshipped  thou  hast  been ; 
No  glimpses  of  the  life  that  is  ethereal 

Shadow  thy  face,  eternally  serene  ! 
Thou  hasl  not  felt  the  impulse  of  resistance — 

Thy  lot  has  linked  thee  with  the  earth  alone: 
Thou  art  no  traveller  to  a  new  existence, 

Thou  hast  no  future  to  be  lost  or  won. 

The  past  for  thee  contains  no  bitter  fountain — 
Thou  bast  no  onward  mission  to  fulfil : 


And  I  would  learn  from  thee,  oh  silent  mountain, 
All  things  enduring,  to  be  tranquil  still  ! 

And  now,  with  that  fond  reverence  of  feeling 
We  owe  whatever  wakes  our  loftiest  thought, 

I  can  but  offer  thee,  in  faint  revealing, 
These  idle  thanks  for  all  that  thou  hast  brought. 


LINES 

TO  ONE  WHO  WILL  UNDERSTAND  THEM. 

I  HAVE  been  reading,  tearfully  and  sadly, 

The  lines  we  read  together  long  ago, 
When  our  experience  glided  on  so  gladly, 

We  loved  to  linger  o'er  poetic  wo. 
\Ve  both  have  changed :  our  souls  at  last  are  finding 

Their  destiny — in  silence  to  endure  ; 
And  the  strong  ties,  our  best  affections  binding, 

Are  not  the  dreamlike  ones  our  hearts  once  wore. 

We  live  no  longer  in  a  world  elysian, 

With  life's  deep  sorrowing  still  a  thing  to  test; 
And  we  have  laid  aside — a  vanished  vision — 

The  hope  once  wildly  treasured  as  our  best. 
Yet  though  the  tie  that  then  our  thoughts  united 

Lies  severed  now,  a  bright  but  broken  chain — 
Though  other  love  hath  lavishly  requited 

That  early  one,  so  passionate  and  vain — 

Still,  as  I  read  the  lines  we  read  together, 

Now  hallowed  by  our  parting's  bitter  tears, 
As  mournfully  my  spirit  questions,  Whither 

Have  gone  the  sweet  illusions  of  those  years  ! 
I  close  the  book,  such  vain  remembrance  bringing 

Of  all  that  now  'twere  wiser  to  forget : 
Say,  are  your  thoughts,  like  mine,  still  idly  clinging 

To  those  old  times  of  rapture  and  regret  I 


JANE   T.  WORTHINGTON. 


2fil 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  GRAVE. 

IT  shineth  on  the  quiet  graves 

Where  weary  ones  have  gone, 
It  watcheth  with  angelic  gaze 

Where  the  dead  are  left  alone ; 
And  not  a  sound  of  busy  life 

To  the  still  graveyard  comes, 
But  peacefully  the  sleepers  lie 

Down  in  their  silent  homes. 

All  silently  and  solemnly 

It  throweth  shadows  round, 
And  every  gravestone  hath  a  trace 

In  darkness  on  the  ground  : 
It  looketh  on  the  tiny  mound 

Where  a  little  child  is  laid, 
And  it  lighteth  up  the  marble  pile 

Which  human  pride  hath  made. 

It  falleth  with  unaltered  ray 

On  the  simple  and  the  stern, 
And  it  showeth  with  a  solemn  light 

The  sorrows  we  must  learn  ; 
It  telleth  of  divided  ties 

On  which  its  beam  hath  shone, 
It  whispereth  of  heavy  hearts 

Which  "  brokenly  live  on." 

It  gleameth  where  devoted  ones 

Are  sleeping  side  by  side, 
It  looketh  where  the  maiden  rests 

Who  in  her  beauty  died. 
There  is  no  grave  in  all  the  earth 

That  moonlight  hath  not  seen ; 
It  gazeth  cold  and  passionless 

Where  agony  hath  been. 

Yet  it  is  well :  that  changeless  ray 

A  deeper  thought  should  throw, 
When  mortal  love  pours  forth  the  tide 

Of  unavailing  wo ; 
It  teacheth  us  no  shade  of  grief 

Can  touch  the  starry  sky, 
That  all  our  sorrow  liveth  here — 

The  glory  is  on  high  ! 


THE  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 

IT  is  a  place  where  tender  thought 

Its  voiceless  vigil  keepeth ; 
It  is  a  place  where  kneeling  love, 

Mid  all  its  hope,  still  weepeth : 
The  vanished  light  of  all  a  life 

That  tiny  spot  encloseth, 
Where,  followed  by  a  thousand  dreams. 

The  little  one  reposeth. 

It  is  a  place  where  thankfulness 

A  tearful  tribute  giveth  : 
That  one  so  pure  hath  left  a  world 

Where  so  much  sorrow  liveth — 
Where  trial,  to  the  heavy  heart, 

Its  constant  cross  presenteth, 
And  every  hour  some  trace  retains 

For  which  the  soul  reperiteth. 


It  is  a  place  for  Hope  to  rise, 

While  other  brightness  waneth, 
And  from  the  darkness  of  the  grave 

To  learn  the  gift  it  gaineth — 
From  Him  who  wept,  as  on  the  earth 

Undying  love  still  weepeth — 
From  Him  who  spoke  the  blessed  words, 

"  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth." 


THE  POOR. 

HAVE  pity  on  them  !  for  their  life 

Is  full  of  grief  and  care : 
You  do  not  know  one  half  the  woes 

The  very  poor  must  bear; 
You  do  not  see  the  silent  tears 

By  many  a  mother  shed, 
As  childhood  offers  up  the  prayer, 

"  Give  us  our  daily  bread." 

And  sick  at  heart,  she  turns  away 

From  the  small  face,  wan  with  pain, 
And  feels  that  prayer  has  long  been  said 

By  those  young  lips  in  vain. 
You  do  not  see  the  pallid  cheeks 

Of  those  whose  years  are  few, 
But  who  are  old  in  all  the  griefs 

The  poor  must  struggle  through. 

Their  lot  is  made  of  misery 

More  hopeless  day  by  day, 
And  through  the  long  cold  winter  nights 

Nor  light  nor  fire  have  they ; 
But  little  children,  shivering,  crouch 

Around  the  cheerless  hearth, 
Their  young  hearts  weary  with  the  want 

That  drags  the  soul  to  earth. 

Oh,  when  with  faint  and  languid  voice 

The  poor  implore  your  aid, 
It  matters  not  how,  step  by  step, 

Their  misery  was  made  ; 
It  matters  not,  if  shame  had  left 

Its  shadow  on  their  brow — 
It  is  enough  for  you  to  see 

That  they  are  suffering  now. 

Deal  gently  with  these  wretched  ones, 

Whatever  wrought  their  wo, 
For  the  poor  have  much  to  tempt  and  test 

That  you  can  never  know  : 
Then  judge  them  not,  for  hard  indeed 

Is  their  dark  lot  of  care  ; 
Let  Heaven  condemn,  but  human  hearts 

With  human  faults  should  bear. 

And  when  within  your  happy  homes 

You  hear  the  voice  of  mirth, 
Wrhen  smiling  faces  brighten  round 

The  warm  and  cheerful  hearth, 
Let  charitable  thoughts  go  forth 

For  the  sad  and  homeless  one, 
And  your  own  lot  more  blest  will  be, 

For  every  kind  deed  done. 
Now  is  the  time  the  very  poor 

Most  often  meet  your  gaze — 
Have  mercy  on  them,  in  these  cold 

And  melancholy  days. 


262 


JANE   T.  WORTHINGTON. 


SLEEP. 

"  He  giveth  liis  beloved  sleep." 

IT  visitelh  the  desolate, 

Who  hath  no  friend  beside, 
And  bringeth  peace  to  saddened  souls 

Whose  hope,  deferred,  had  died  : 
It  layeth  its  caressing  hand 

Upon  the  brow  of  care, 
And  calleth  to  the  faded  lips 

The  smile  they  used  to  wear. 

And  lovely  is  the  angel  light 

Of  a  little  child's  repose, 
The  holiest  and  the  sweetest  rest 

Our  human  nature  knows — 
Such  rest  as  can  not  close  the  eyes 

Grown  old  with  many  tears, 
That  never  soothes  the  pilgrim  path 

Of  life's  dejected  years. 

"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  !" 

All  thanks  for  such  a  boon, 
And  thanks,  too,  for  the  deeper  sleep 

That  will  be  with  us  soon — 
From  which  our  long  o'erladen  hearts 

Shall  wake  to  pain  no  more, 
But  find  fulfilled  the  fairest  thoughts 

They  only  dreamed  before  ! 


TO  TWILIGHT. 

PALE  Memory's  favored  child  thou  art, 
And  many  dreams  are  thine ; 

With  thine  existence,  all  the  past 
Returning  seems  to  twine. 

Thou  bringest  to  the  souls  bereaved 
The  look  and  tone  they  miss; 

Thou  callest  from  another  world 
The  best  beloved  of  this. 

Thou  comest  like  a  veilr-d  nun, 
With  footstep  sad  and  slow ; 
Thou  summonest  the  solemn  prayer 
From  heart  and  lip  to  flow. 

Thou  givest  to  fantastic  things 

A  real  shape  and  hue, 
And  thou  canst,  like  a  poet's  dream, 

Idealize  the  true. 

Oh,  if  thy  coining  thus  recalls 

The  past  upon  our  sight, 
How  must  the  guilty  shrink  from  thee, 

Thou  sad  and  solemn -light ! 

How  must  the  hard  and  hopeless  heart 

Thy  mystic  power  repel — 
What  fearful  fantasies  must  fill 

The  convict's  haunted  cell ! 


How  must  his  young  and  better  days 

Upon  his  visions  dawn — 
How  bitterly  that  ruined  soul 

Must  mourn  its  brightness  gone  ! 

Oh,  often  at  thy  thoughtful  hour, 

Beside  the  happy  hearth, 
My  busy  fancy  flies  to  these, 

The  lost  ones  of  the  earth. 

A  voice  amid  their  solitude 

Is  sounding  evermore — 
God  help  them  in  that  loneliness 

So  fearful  to  endure  ! 


THE  WITHERED  LEAVES. 

THEY  are  falling  thick  and  rapidly, 

Before  the  autumn  breeze, 
And  a  sudden  sound  of  mournfulness 

Is  heard  among  the  trees, 
Like  a  wailing  for  the  scattered  leaves, 

So  beautiful  and  bright, 
Thus  dying  in  their  sunny  hues 

Of  loveliness  and  light. 

The  wind  that  wafts  them  to  their  doom 

Is  the  same  that  swept  along 
In  the  freshness  of  their  summer-time, 

And  blessed  them  with  its  song : 
That  voice  is  still  the  merry  one 

That  mid  the  sunshine  fell — 
Ye  are  not  missed,  ye  glowing  leave*, 

By  the  friend  ye  loved  so  well. 

But  yet,  no  fearful  fate  is  yours, 

No  shuddering  at  decay, 
No  shrinking  from  the  blighting  gust 

That  bears  your  life  away  : 
The  spring-tide,  with  its  singing  birds*, 

Hath  long  ago  gone  by — 
Ye  had  your  time  to  bloom  and  live, 

Ye  have  your  time  to  die. 

Oh,  would  that  we,  the  sadder  ones, 

Who  linger  on  the  earth, 
Like  ye  might  wither  when  our  lives 

Had  parted  with  their  mirth : 
Ye  glow  with  beauty  to  the  last, 

And  brighten  with  decay, 
Ye  know  not  of  the  mental  war 

That  wears  the  heart  away. 

Ye  have  no  memories  to  recall, 

No  sorrows  to  lament, 
No  secret  weariness  of  soul 

With  all  your  pleasures  blent: 
To  us  alone  the  lot  is  cast, 

To  think,  to  love,  to  feel — 
Alas  !  how  much  of  human  wo 

Those  few  brief  words  reveal ! 


SARAH    ANNA    LEWIS. 


(Born  1824). 


Mrss  ROBINSON,  now  Mrs.  LEWIS,  is  a  na 
tive  of  Baltimore.  She  inherits  from  her 
fatner,  who  was  a  Cuban,  of  English  and 
Spanish  parentage,  and  a  man  of  liberal  for 
tune  and  cultivated  understanding,  the  mel 
ancholy  temperament  which  is  illustrated  in 
the  greater  part  of  her  writings.  After  be 
ing  carefully  educated  —  in  part  at  the  cele 
brated  school  of  Mrs.  Willard,  in  Troy  —  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  L.  D.  Lewis,  an  attorney 
and  counsellor,  wrn  soon  after  removed  to 
Brooklyn,  where  they  have  since  resided. 

The  earliest  writings  of  Mrs.  Lewis  ap 
peared  in  the  Family  Magazine,  edited  by 
the  well-known  Solomon  Suuthwick,  of  Al 
bany.  She  came  more  prominently  before 
the  public  in  Records  of  the  Heart,  published 
in  New  York  in  1844.  The  principal  poems 
in  this  volume  —  Florence,  Zenel,  Melpome 
ne,  and  Laone  —  are  of  considerable  length, 
and  of  a  more  rrmbitious  design  than  most  of 
the  compositions  of  our  female  poets.  That 
they  evince  fancy  and  an  ear  sensitive  to  har 
mony,  will  be  understood  from  the  following 
lines  of  Florence : 

The  waves  are  smooth,  the  wind  is  calm  ; 

Onward  the  golden  stream  is  gliding, 
Amid  the  myrtle  and  ihe  palm, 

And  ilices  its  margin  hiding; 
Now  sweeps  it  o'er  the  jutting  shoals 
In  murmurs  like  despairing  souls; 
Now  deeply,  softly,  flows  along 
Like  ancient  minstrels'  warbled  song; 
Then  slowlv,  darkly,  thoughtfully, 
Loses  itself  in  the  mighty  sea. 
The  sky  is  clear,  the  stars  are  bright, 
The  moon  reposes  on  her  light ; 
On  many  a  budding,  fairy  blossom, 

Are  glittering  Evening's  dewy  tears, 
As  gleam  the  gems  on  Beauty's  bosom 

When  she  in  festal  garb  appears. 

Among  the  minor  poems  in  this  collection 
is  the  following,  which  is  quoted  here  for  its 
merits  and  for  the  praises  it  has  received  from 
the  acute  critic  Mr.  Edgar  A.  Foe,  who  de 
scribes  it  as  "inexpressibly  beautiful: 

THE  FORSAKEN. 
It  hath  been  said,  for  all  who  die 
There  is  a  tear ; 
pining,  bleeding  heart  to  si^h 
O'er  every  bier : 


But  in  that  hour  of  pain  and  dreail 

Who  will  draw  near 
Around  my  humble  couch,  and  shed 

One  farewell  tearl 

Who  watch  life's  last,  departing  ray 

In  deep  despair, 
And  soothe  my  spirit  on  its  way 

With  holy  prayer] 
Wha/.  mourner  round  my  tier  will  come 

1  In  weeds  of  wo," 
And  follow  me  to  my  long  home — 

Solemn  and  slow  ] 
When  lying  on  my  clayey  bed, 

In  icy  sleep, 
Who  there  by  pure  affection  led 

Will  come  and  weep — 
By  the  pale  moon  implant  the  rose 

Upon  my  breast, 
And  bid  it  cheer  my  dark  repose, 

My  lowly  rest] 

Could  I  but  know  when  I  am  sleeping 

Low  in  the  ground, 
One  faithful  heart  would  there  be  keeping 

Watch  all  night  round, 
As  if  some  gem  lay  shrined  beneath 

That  sod's  cold  gloom, 
'T  would  mitigate  the  pangs  of  death 

And  light  the  tomb. 

Yes,  in  that  hour  if  I  could  feel 

From  halls  of  glee 
And  Beauty's  presence  one  would  steal 

In  secrecy, 
And  come  and  sit  and  weep  by  me 

In  night's  deep  noon — 
Oh  !  I  would  ask  of  Memory 

No  other  boon. 
But  ah  !  a  lonelier  fate  is  mine — 

A  deeper  wo  : 
From  all  I  love  in  youth's  sweet  time 

I  soon  must  go — 
Draw  round  me  mv  cold  robes  of  white, 

In  a  dark  spot 
To  sleep  through  Death's  long,  dreamless  night, 

Lone  and  forgot. 

There  is  a  very  fine   poem   by   Mother- 
well,  by  which  this  may  have  been  suggest 
ed,  though  if  Mrs.  Lewis  had  read  it,  it  was 
of  course  forgotten   by  her  when  she  coin 
posed  The  Forsaken.     The  following  verses* 
are  from  the  piece  by  Motherwell : 
"  When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping. 

Life's  fever  o'er. 

Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping. 
That  I  'm  no  more  ] 


204 


SARA  H    A  X  N  A    L  b  W I S. 


Will  there  l>c  any  heart  si  ill  memory  keeping 
Of  heretofore  ! 

"  When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining 
With  purest  ray,  [twining, 

And  the  small  flowers  their  hiuls  and  blossoms 
Burst  through  that  clay, 

Will  there  he  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 
Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 

"  When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory 

On  that  low  mound, 
And  wintry  storms  have  with  their  ruins  hoary 

Its  loneness  crowned, 
Will  there  be  then  one  versed  in  Misery's  story 

Pacing  it  round  !" 

In  the  four  years  which  succeeded  the  pub 
lication  of  The  Records  of  the  Heart,  Mrs. 
Lewis  was  an  occasional  contributor  to  the 
Democratic  Review,  the  American  Review, 
and  The  Spirit  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
In  the  autumn  of  1848  she  published  a  sec 
ond  volume,  entitled  The  Child  of  the  Sea, 
and  Other  Poems.  The  Child  of  the  Sea  is 
her  best  production.  It  is  an  interesting  sto 
ry,  in  a  finely  modulated  rhythm,  and  with 
many  tasteful  and  happy  expressions.  It 
evinces  passion,  fancy,  and  a  degree  of  im 
agination.  The  design  is  partly  unfolded  in 
the  opening  line? : 

Where  blooms  the  myrtle,  and  the  olive  flings 

Its  aromatic  breath  upon  the  air ; 

Where  the  sad  bird  of  night  for  ever  sings 

Meet  anthems  for  the  children  of  despair, 

Who  silently,  with  wi'd,  dishevelled  hair, 

Stray  through  those  val'evs  of  perpetual  bloom  ; 

Where  hideous  War  and  Murder  from  their  lair 

Stalk  forth  in  awful  and  terrific  gloom  ; 
Rapine  and  Vice  disport  on  Glory's  gilded  tomb : 

My  fancy  pensive  pictures  youthful  Love, 

Ill-starred,  yet  trustful,  truthful,  and  sublime, 

As  ever  angels  chronicled  above  ; 

The  sorrowings  of  Beauty  in  her  prime ; 

Virtue's  reward;  the  punishment  of  Crime; 

The  dark,  inscrutable  decrees  of  Fate; 

Despair,  untold  before  in  prose  or  rhyme; 

The  wrong,  the  agony,  the  sleepless  hate', 
That  mad  the  soul  and  make  the  bosom  desolate. 

Sunset  upon  the  bay  of  Gibraltar  is  thus 
happily  described  : 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  on  Tarick's  burnished  bay, 
The  silent  sea-mews  bend  them  through  the  spray  ; 
The  beauty-freighted  barges  bound  afhr 

To  the  soft  music  of  the  gay  guitar 

The  sentry  peal  salutes  the  setting  sun, 
The  haven's  hum  and  busy  din  are  done, 
And  weary  sailors  room  along  the  strand, 
Or  stretoh  their  brawny  limbs  upon  the  sand ; 
Feast,  revel,  game,  engage  in  sage  dispute, 
Unthread  the  story,  sound  the  tuneful  lute; 
)r  bumming  some  rude  n.r  that  stirs  the  heart, 
Clue  up  the  sails,  or  sprtad  them  to  depart. 


The  hero  of  the  poem  is  introduced: 
On  his  high  brow  and  glossy  locks  of  jet. 
The  cap  that  decks  the  noble  Greek  is  set ; 
Folded  his  arms  across  his  sable  vest, 
As  if  to  keep  the  heart  within  his  breast. 
Lone  are  the  thoughts  that  crowd  upon  his  mind 
And  vainly  strive  in  speech  a  vent  to  find  ; 
They  writhe,  they  chafe,  against  restraint  rebel, 
Then  powerless  shrink  within  their  silent  cell. 
His  bosom  pines  for  what  it  never  knew — 

Some  soft,  fair  hcing  to  its  beating  true 

A  loveliness  round  which  the  soul  may  cling 

As  fades  from  earth  the  last  soft  smile  of  Day, 
lie  turns  his  melancholy  steps  away, 
With  eyes  bent  down,  across  the  Vega  strides, 
Nor  notes  the  fawn  that  tamely  by  him  gJides, 
The  violets  lifting  up  their  azure  eyes, 
Like  timid  virgins  when  Love's  steps  surprise ; 
His  heavy  heart  forebodes  some  danger  near, 
And  throbs  alternately  with  joy  and  feai. 

Night: 

Sleep  chains  the  earth :  the  bright  stars  glide  on  high 
Filling  with  one  effulgent  smile  the  sky ; 
And  all  is  hushed  so  still,  so  silent  there, 
That  one  might  hear  an  angel  wing  the  air. 

Delirium  : 

At  last,  I  felt  me  borne  as  in  a  dream, 
And  wafted  down  some  softly-gliding  stream, 
And  heard  the  creaking  cordage  over  head, 
The  sailor's  merry  song  and  nimble  tread  ; 
Then  backward  sank  to  mental  night  again — 
Delirium's  world  of  fantasy  and  pain, 
Where  hung  the  fiery  moon,  and  stars  of  blood 
And  phantom-ships  rolled  on  the  rolling  flood. 

Knowledge  : 

My  mind  by  Grief  was  ripened  ere  its  time, 
And  knowledge  came  spontaneous  as  a  chime, 
That  flows  into  the  soul  unhid,  unsought; 
On  earth,  and  air,  and  heaven,  I  fed  my  thought 

On  Ocean's  teachings — Etna's  lava-tears 

Ruins  and  wrecks,  and  nameless  sepulchres. 

The  Holy  Land  : 
0  God  !  it  is  a  melancholy  sight 
To  see  that  land  whence  sprung  all  sacred  light ; 
Delight  of  men,  and  most  beloved  of  God ; 
Where,  happy  first,  our  primal  parents  trod; 
Where  Hagar  mourned,  and  Judah's  minstrel  sung, 
With  the  dark  pal!  of  desolation  hung! 
No  band  of  warriors  crowd  the  royal  <jate, 
No  suppliant  millions  in  the  temples  wait, 
No  prophet-minstrel  swells  the  tide  of  song, 
No  mighty  seer  enchains  the  breathless  throng; 
But  from  the  Jordan  to  the  ^gean  tide, 
From  Ganges  to  Euphrates'  fertile  side, 
From  Mecca's  plains  to  lofty  Lebanon, 
The  ashes  of  departed  worlds  are  strown. 
On  CarmcPs  heights,  on  Pisgah's  tops  I  stood, 
And  paced  Epirus'  savage  solitude; 
Before  the  sepulchre  of  Jesus  knelt, 
And  bv  the  Galilean  waters  dwelt; 
Wandered  among  Assyria's  ruins  vast, 
Feeding  my  mute  thoughts  on  the  silent  past- 
Pride,  splendor,  glory,  deso'ation,  crime, 
And  the  deep  mystery  of  the  birth  of  Time. 


.  SARAH    ANNA   LEWIS. 


265 


Sleep : 

— The  oblivious  world  of  Sleep — 
That  rayless  realm  where  Fancy  never  beams — 
That  nothingness  beyond  the  land  of  dreams. 

Indifference : 

— There  are  times  when  the  sick  soul 
Lies  calm  amid  the  storms  that  round  it  roll, 
Indifferent  to  Fate,  or  to  what  haven 
By  the  terrific' tempest  it  is  driven. 

Greece : 

Shrine  of  the  Gods  !  mine  own  eternal  Greece ! 
When  shall  thy  weeds  be  doffed,  thy  mourning  cease, 
The  gyves  that  bind  thy  beauty  rent,  in  twain, 
And  thou  be  living,  breathing  Greece  again  ? 
Grave  of  the  mighty — hero,  poet,  sage — 
Whose  deeds  are  guiding  stars  to  every  age  ! 
Land  unsurpassed  in  glory  and  despair, 
Still  in  thy  desolation  thou  art  fair. 
Low  in  sepulchral  dust  lies  Pallas'  shrine — 
Low  in  sepulchral  dust  thy  fanes  divine, 
And  all  thy  visible  self — yet,  o'er  thy  clay, 
Soul,  beauty,  linger,  hallowing  decay. 
Not  all  the  ills  that  vv»ir  entailed  on  thee, 
Not  a.l  the  blood  that  stained  Thennopyla, 
Not  a  1  the  desolation  traitors  wrought, 
Not  all  the  wo  and  want  invaders  brought, 
Not  all  the  tears  that  slavery  could  wring 
Frjin  out  thy  heart  of  patient  suffering, 
Not  all  that  drapes  thy  loveliness  in  night, 
Can  quench  thy  spirit's  never-dying  light ; 
But  hovering  o'er  the  dust  of  gods  enshrined, 
It  beams  a  beacon  to  the  marc'.i  of  mind — 
An  oasis  to  sa^e  and  bard  forlorn — 
A  guiding  light  to  centuries  unborn. 

For  thee  I  mourn  ;  thy  blood  is  in  my  veins : 
To  thee  by  consanguinity's  strong  chains 
I'm  bound,  and  fain  would  die  to  make  thee  free; 
But  oh,  there  is  no  liberty  for  thee ! 
Not  all  the  wisdom  of  thy  greatest  one — 
Not  all  the  bravejy  of  Thetis'  son — 
Not  all  the  weight  of  mighty  Phoebus'  ire- 
Not  all  the  magic  of  the  Athenian's  lyre, 
Can  ever  bid  thv  tears  or  mourning  cease, 
Or  rend  one  gyve  that  binds  thee,  lovely  Greece ! 

Zarn?n  and  Mynera : 

And  they  were  wed  :  Love  chased  their  tears  away, 
As  mists  are  driven  before  the  smile  of  Day, 
Gave  softer  radiance  to  both  earth  and  sky, 
And  made  each  lovelier  in  the  other's  eye. 
No  discord  rose  to  mar  their  happiness — 
Each  morning  brought  to  them  untasted  bliss; 
No  panj,s,  no  sorrows  came  with  varying  years; 
No  cold  distrust,  no  faithlessness,  no  tears : 
But  hand  in  hand,  as  Eve  and  Adam  trod 
Eden,  they  walked  beneath  the  smile  of  God. 
At  morn  they  wandered  through  the  dewy  bowers, 
Tended  the  birds,  or  trained  the  garden  flowers ; 
Or,  weary  of  these  health-inspiring  arts, 
With  music  and  sweet  song  refreshed  their  hearts  ; 
Then  all  day  seated  in  the  colonnade, 
Or  where  the  myrtle  made  a  genial  shade, 
They  pored  above  the  *omes  of  other  days — 
Cervantes'  wit,  and  Oman's  sounding  lays; 


And  Dante's  dreams,  and  Petrarch's  deathless  love ; 
All  that  mad  Tasso  into  numbers  wove ; 
Shakspere's  deep  harp,  and  Milton's  loftier  songr 
From  all  creations  of  the  minstrel  throng, 
Statues  and  busts  by  Grecian  chisels  wrought, 
They  drew  the  nutriment  of  Love  and  Thought. 
Then,  moved  by  Genius,  Zamen  swept  his  lyre, 
And,  like  a  meteor,  flashed  its  latent  fire 
Upon  the  world,  and  thrilled  its  inmost  heart: 
All  that  his  soul  had  gleaned  from  beauty,  art, 
Love,  ruin,  melancholy,  anguish,  wrong, 
Hevenge,  he  wove  into  harmonious  song, 
And  to  his  country  and  to  lasting  fame 
Bequeathed  a  cherished  and  a  spotless  name. 

Isabelle,  or  the  Broken  Heart,  is  a  passion 
ate  story,  with  many  passages  of  spirited  de 
scription  and  narration.  In  the  following 
passage  the  heroine — a  wandering  minstrel 
girl  who  has  deserted  a  noble  home  to  follow 
a  false  lover  —  goes  to  the  confessional : 

Wan  the  mournful  maiden  now 

Across  the  balmy  valley  flies, 
The  cold,  damp  dew  upon  her  brow, 

The  hot  tears  trickling  from  her  eyes — 
The  last  that  Fate  can  ever  wring 
From  her  young  bosom's  troubled  spring. 
Swiftly  beneath  the  myrtle  she 
Glides  onward  o'er  the  moonlit  lea ; 
By  many  a  mausoleum  speeds, 
And  tomb  amidst  the  tuneful  reeds, 
Yet  falters  not — she  feels  no  dread 
When  in  the  presence  of  the  dead — 
Alas  !  what  awe  have  sepulchres 
For  hearts  that  have  been  dead  for  years — • 
Dead  unto  all  external  things — 
Dead  unto  Hope's  sweet  offerings. 
While  with  its  lofty  pinions  furled, 
The  spirit  floats  in  neither  world  ! 

She  gains  at  length  the  holy  fane, 
Where  death  and  solemn  silence  reign; 
Hurries  along  the  shadowy  aisles, 

Up  to  the  altar  where  blest  tapers 
Burn  dimly,  and  the  Virgin  smiles, 

Midst  rising  clouds  of  incense  vapors; 
There  kneels  by  the  confession  chair, 
Where  waits  the  friar  with  fervent  prayer, 
To  soothe  the  children  of  despair. 

Her  hands  are  clasped,  her  eyes  upraised, 
Meek,  beautiful,  though  coldly  glazed, 

And  her  pale  cheeks  are  paling  faster; 
From  under  her  simple  hat  of  straw, 
Over  her  neck  her  tresses  flow, 

Like  threads  of  jet  o'er  alabaster — 
From  which  the  constant  dews  of  night 
Have  stolen  half  their  glossy  light. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  a  just  impression  of 
any  narrative  poem  by  a  selection  of  speci 
mens.  But  the  character  and  force  of  the 
abilities  of  Mrs.  Lewis  will  perhaps  be  bet 
ter  understood  from  these  fragment?  than 
from  a  critical  description. 


266 


SARAH    ANNA   LEWIS.. 


LAMENT  OF  LA  VEGA  IN  CAPTIVITY. 

O  patria  atnada!  a  ti  suspira  y  llora 
Ksta  en  sii  carrel  alma  pereg-ima, 
Llevadii  errando  de  uno,  eii  otro  instante." 

I  AM  a  captive  on  a  hostile  shore, 
Caged,  like  the  falcon  from  his  native  skies, 

And  doomed  by  agonizing  grief  to  pour 
In  futile  lamentations,  tears,  and  sighs, 
And  feed  the  gaze  of  fools  whom  I  despise. 

Daily  they  taunt  my  heart  with  bitter  sneers — 
They  prate  of  liberty,  deeds  great  and  wise, 

And  fill  the  air  with  patriotic  cheers,  [ears. 

While  human  shackles  clank  around  their  listless 

Hark  !  hear  ye  not,  mid  those  triumphal  cries, 
The  clanking  of  tb.e  Ethiopian's  chains  ? 

His  smothered  curses  from  the  ricefields  ris«  ! 
The  loud,  indignant  beating  of  his  veins, 
Stirred  by  the  lava  hell  that  in  him  reigns  • 

Hear'st  him  not  writhe  against  the  dark  decree 
That  gyves  the  soul — for  it  brute-rank  maintains  ? 

The  impetuous  rushings  of  his  heart,  when  he 

Watches  the  eagle  soar  into  the  heavens  all  free  1 

My  soul,  appalled,  shrinks  from  hypocrisy, 
And  whatsoever  bears  deceptious  name — 

Under  thy  banner — heaven-born  Liberty  ! 
The  fiends  of  war,  inflated  with  acclaim, 
Revel  in  crime  and  virtue  put  to  shame  : 

They  slaughter  babes  and  wives  without  a  cause, 
And,  holding  up  their  reeking  blades,  exclaim, 

"A  victory  !" — demolish  homes,  rights,  laws, 

And  o'er  the  wreck  send  up  to  heaven  their  proud 
hurrahs. 

I  am  a  captive  while  my  country  bleeds — 
For  Retribution  loudly  cries  to  Heaven, 

And  for  the  presence  of  her  warriors  pleads, 
Till  from  her  far  the  ruthless  foe  is  driven  :" 
0  God,  O  God  !  hast  thou  my  country  given 

To  direful  fate  ?  Must  I  lie  cooped  up  here, 
While  she  by  desecrating  hands  is  riven  ] 

The  sobs  of  Age,  arid  Beauty's  shrieks  of  fear, 

Like  funeral  knells  afar  are  tolling  in  my  ear  ! 

And  thou,  ethereal  one  !  my  spirit's  bride, 
My  star,  my  sun,  my  universe — the  beam 

That  lit  my  youthful  feet  mid  ways  untried — 
Within  me  woke  each  high  ambitious  scheme, 
And  here  dost  hover  o'er  me  in  my  dream, 

Pressing  thy  lips  to  mine  until  I  feel 
Our  quick  hearts  ebbing  into  one  soft  stream 

Of  holy  love — ah,  who  will  guard  thy  weal, 

And  from  thy  breast  avert  the  dark  marauder's  steel  1 

Oh,  my  distracted  country  !  child  of  pain 
And  anarchy  ! — thee  shall  I  see  no  more 

Till  thou  art  struggling  in  the  tyrant's  chain, 
Oppressed  by  insult  and  by  sorrow  sore, 
And  steeping  in  thy  children's  sacred  gore  ] 

Must  thy  dim  star  of  glory  set  for  aye  1 
Must  thou  become  the  poet's  Mecca  1 — lore 

For  antiquaries  1 — temple  of  decay  ? 

Wilt  thou  survive  no  more,  my  beautiful  Monterey  1 

•Spirit  of  Cortos — Montezuma — rise  ! 

Let  not  the  foe  your  cherished  laj»d  enslave  ! 
Let  her  not  fall  a  bloody  sacrifice  ! 

And  thou,  eternal  Ci('  '  who  from  the  grave 


Didst  wake  to  lead  to  victory  the  brave  !* 
Heroes  who  fell  in  Rone  svalles  vale, 

And  ye  who  fought  by  Darro's  golden  wave/f 
From  the  Red  VegaJ  drove  the  Moslem  pale, 
Hear,  in  the  spirit-land,  my  country's  doleful  wail, 


UNA. 

THEHK  is  but  little  on  this  earth 
To  fill  the  soul  of  lofty  birth; 
At  best  it  much  must  feel  the  dearth 
Of  genial  showers. 

It  binds  Nepenthe  to  its  lips, 
Arid  at  life's  sparking  goblet  sips, 
While  in  the  waters  fennel  dips 
Its  bitter  flowers. 

But  Una,  round  thy  heart's  blest  shrine, 
No  bitter  fennel-blossoms  twine  : 
By  odor-breathing  flowers  divine 
It  is  embalmed. 

Sere  lies  my  heart,  and  sere  its  world, 
Since  thou  wert  from  its  altars  hurled ; 
My  spirit's  pinions  have  been  furled, 
Dike  sails  becalmed. 

Love  on  my  heart  thy  form  did  stamp, 
Thy  beauty,  like  a  vestal  lamp, 
Within  my  soul's  cell,  dark  and  damp, 
For  ever  burns. 

And  unto  thee,  as  to  its  goal, 
Gazes  athirst  the  stranded  soul ; 
As  points  the  magnet  to  the  pole, 
My  sick  heart  turns. 


THE  DEAD. 

THK  dead,  the  dead — ah,  where  are  they] 
What  distant  planet  do  they  tread  ? 

What  stars  illume  their  blissful  way  1 

What  suns  their  light  around  them  shed  ] 

Do  they  look  through  the  mystic  veil 
That  hides  them  from  our  mortal  eyes, 

And  catch  the  mourner's  plaintive  wail 
That  o'er  their  sepulchres  doth  rise  1 

Do  they  the  bitter  pinings  know 

Of  friends  that  hold  their  memory  dear — 
The  many  sighs — the  tears  that  flow 

Because  they  dwell  no  longer  here  ? 

Oh,  if  they  do,  'tis  meed  enough 
For  all  the  tears  that  we  must  shed : 

The  chains  of  wo  we  can  not  doff 
Till  we  are  numbered  with  the  dead  ! 


*  Cid  Campeador,  after  death,  was  dressed  in  his  war 
apparel,  placed  on  his  richly  caparisoned  steed,  and  led 
forth  from  the  walls  of  Valencia  toward  the  Moorish 
camp  ;  at  the  sight  of  whom,  and  the  great  number  of  his 
followers,  the  Moors,  in  all  sixty  thousand,  lied  toward  the 
sea.  —  Souf key's  Chronicles  of  the  Cid. 

t  The  Darro  is  a  small  stream  running  through  the  city 
of  Grenada.  ?\nd  containing  in  its  bed  particles  of  gold. 

J  The  plan  surrounding  Grenada,  and  the  scene  of  ac 
tion  between  the  Moors  and  the  ChrUtians. 


ANJSTA    CORA   MOWATT    RITCHIE. 

(Born  1820-Died  1870). 


ANNA  COEA  OGDEN,  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Sam 
uel  Gouverneur  Ogden,  now  of  the  city  of 
New  York,  was  born  in  Bordeaux  during  a 
temporary  residence  of  her  parents  in  France. 
Her  father's  family  has  long  been  distin 
guished  in  the  social  and  commercial  history 
of  New  York,  and  her  mother  was  descend 
ed  from  Francis  Lewis,  one  of  the  signers  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence.  Mr.  Ogden 
had  lost  the  principal  portion  of  a  large  for 
tune  in  Miranda's  celebrated  expedition  in 
to  South  America,  and  his  residence  at  Bor 
deaux  was  occasioned  by  mercantile  affairs 
which  in  a  few  years  secured  for  him  a  sec 
ond  time  rank  among  the  great  merchants 
and  capitalists  of  his  native  city. 

A  melancholy  interest  was  thrown  around 
Mr.  Ogden's  return,  by  the  loss  of  two  sons, 
who  were  swept  overboard  in  a  storm  dur 
ing  the  voyage  ;  but  the  surviving  members 
of  the  family  settled  in  his  old  home,  and  for 
several  years  the  education  of  the  daughters 
occupied  and  rewarded  his  best  attention.  In 
the  chateau  in  which  they  had  lived  near 
Bordeaux,  they  had  passed  the  holydays  and 
domestic  anniversaries  in  masques  and  pri 
vate  theatricals,  and  there  Anna  Cora  Ogden 
gave,  in  the  abandon  with  which  she  enact 
ed  childish  characters,  the  first  indications 
of  that  histrionic  genius  for  which  she  is  now 
distinguished.  At  thirteen  she  read  with  de 
light  the  plays  of  Voltaire,  and  the  next  year 
she  personated  the  heroine  of  Alzire  on  her 
mother's  birthday.  She  had  previously  be 
come  acquainted  with  Mr.  Mowatt,  a  young 
lawyer  of  good  family  and  nattering  pros 
pects,  who  then  became  a  suitor  for  her  hand, 
and  as  her  parents,  to  whom  the  marriage 
was  not  objectionable,  demanded  its  post 
ponement  until  she  should  be  seventeen  years 
of  age,  they  eloped  and  were  privately  mar 
ried  by  one  of  the  French  clergymen  of  the 
cily. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mowatt  resided  several  years 
near  the  city  of  New  York,  and  in  this  period 
she  wrote  Pelayo,  or  the  Cavern  of  Covadon- 
ga,  a  poetical  romance,  in  six  cantos,  which 
was  published  anonymously  by  the  Harpers 


'  in  1836.  Mr.  Mowatt's  health  having  de 
clined,  they  seized  the  occasion  of  the  mar 
riage  of  a  younger  daughter  of  Mr.  Ogden  to 
visit  Europe.  They  resided  in  Germany  and 
France  a  year  and  a  half,  and  in  Paris  Mrs. 
Mowatt  wrote  Gulzare,  the  Persian  Slave, 
a  five  act  play,  which  was  printed  in  New 
York  soon  after  their  return,  in  1841.  The 
interruption  of  his  business  caused  by  this 
visit  to  Europe,  and  the  infirm  condition  of 
his  health,  induced  Mr.  Mowatt  to  abandon 
the  profession  of  the  law  and  to  embark  in 
trade,  and  in  the  period  of  commercial  dis 
asters  which  followed,  he  lost  nearly  all  his 
property.  Mr.  Ogden  had  also  suffered  new 
misfortunes,  and  these  reverses  led  Mrs. 
Mowatt  to  the  first  public  display  of  her  abil 
ities.  The  dramatic  readings  of  Mr.  Van- 
denhofThad  been  eminently  successful  in  the 
chief  cities  of  the  Union,  and,  confident  of 
her  powers,  she  determined  to  follow  his  ex 
ample.  She  had  already  acquired  some  rep 
utation  in  literature,  which  secured  for  her 
a  favorable  reception  on  her  first  appearance, 
of  which  the  results  more  than  justified  her 
sanguine  anticipations.  Her  readings  from 
the  poets  were  repeated  to  large  and  applaud 
ing  audiences  in  Boston,  Providence,  and 
New  York.  Mr.  Mowatt  having  become  a 
partner  in  a  publishing  house,  she  turned  her 
attention  again  to  literary  composition,  and 
produced  in  quick  succession  several  vol 
umes,  among  which  were  Sketches  of  Cele 
brated  Persons,  and  the  Fortune  Hunter,  a 
Novel.  In  1844  she  wrote  Evelyn,  or  the 
Heart  Unmasked,  a  Tale  of  Fashionable  Life, 
which  is  the  last  and  in  some  respects  the 
best  of  her  works  of  this  description.  It  is 
spirited  and  witty,  but  unequal,  and  was  writ 
ten  too  hastily  and  carelessly  to  be  justly  re 
garded  as  the  measure  of  her  talents. 

Her  next  work  was  Fashion,  a  Comedy, 
which  was  successfully  acted  in  the  theatres 
of  New  York  and  Philadelphia  in  the  spiing 
of  1845  ;  and  in  the  following  autumn  she 
made  her  brilliant  first  appearance  as  an  ac 
tress,  at  the  Park  Theatre.  She  afierward 
made  two  theatrical  tours  of  the  principal 

267 


2C8 


AXXA    COKA    MOWATT    RITCHIE. 


cities  of  the  United  Suites,  a;;d  in  the  spring 
of  1847  she  brought  out  in  New  York  her 
third  five  act  play,  Arrnand,  or  the  Child  of 
the  People.  In  November  of  the  same  year 
she  sailed  with  her  husband  for  England,  and 
she  has  since  played  in  Manchester  and  Lon 
don  a  wide  range  of  characters,  in  many  of 
which  she  has  won  high  praises  from  the 
most  judicious  critics. 

The  poems  of  Mrs.  Mowatt,  except  Peiayo 


and  her  dramatic  pieces,  are  brief  and  fugi 
tive,  and  generally  wanting  in  that  anislic 
finish  of  which  she  has  frequently  shown  her 
self  to  be  capable. 

Mr.  Mowatt  dying  abroad,  Mrs.  Mowatt 
returned  to  the  United  States,  and  after 
playing  in  all  our  principal  cities,  slie  took 
leave  of  the  stage  in  1831,  on  marrying 
Mr.  W.  F.  Ritchie,  the  editor  of  the 
Richmond  Enquirer. 


THE  RAISING  OF  JAIRUS'   DAUGHTER. 

WITH ix  the  darkened  chamber  sat 

A  proud  but  stricken  form  ; 
Upon  her  vigil-wasted  cheeks 

The  grief-wrung  tears  were  warm ; 
And  faster  streamed  they  as  she  bent 

Above  the  couch  of  pain, 
Where  lay  a  withering  flower  that  wooed 

Those  fond  eyes'  freshening  rain. 

The  raven  tress  on  that  young  brow 

Was  damp  with  dews  of  death; 
And  glassier  grew  her  upraised  eye 

With  every  fluttering  breath. 
Coldly  her  slender  fingers  lay 

Within  the  mourner's  grasp; 
Lightly  they  pressed  that  fostering  hand, 

And  stiffened  in  its  grasp. 

Then  low  the  mother  bent  her  knee, 

And  cried  in  fervent  prayer — 
"  Hear  me,  O  God  !  mine  own,  my  child, 

Oh,  holy  Father,  spare  ! 
My  loved,  my  last,  mine  only  one — 

Tear  her  not  yet  away  ; 
Leave  this  crushed  heart  its  best,  sole  joy : 

Be  merciful,  I  pray  !" 
A  radiance  lit  the  maiden's  face, 

Though  fixed  in  death  her  eye ; 
A  smile  had  met  the  angel's  kiss 

That  stole  her  parting  sigh  ! 
And  round  her  cold  lips  still  that  smile 

A  holy  brightness  shed, 
As  though  she  joyed  her  sinless  soul 

To  Him  who  gave  had  fled. 
The  mother  clasped  the  senseless  form, 

And  shrieked  in  wild  despair, 
And  kissed  the  icy  lips  and  cheek, 

And  touched  the  dewy  hair. 
"  No  warmth — no  life — my  child,  my  child ! 

Oh  for  one  parting  word, 
One  murmur  of  that  lutelike  voice, 

Though  but  an  instant  heard ! 
"  She  is  not  dead — she  could  not  die — 

So  young,  so  fair,  so  pure ; 
Spare  mp,  in  pity  spare  this  blow  ! 

Ah  else  I  can  endure. 
Take  hope,  take  peace,  this  blighted  hear 

Strike  with  thy  heaviest  rod  ; 
But  leave  me  this,  thy  sweetest  boon, 

Give  back  mv  child,  0  God  !" 


The  suppliant  ceased ;  her  tears  were  staved 

Hushed  were  those  wailings  loud ; 
A  hallowed  peace  crept  o'er  her  soul ; 

Her  head  to  earth  was  bowed 
Low  as  her  knee ;  for  as  she  knelt, 

About  her,  lo  !  a  flood 
Of  soft,  celestial  lustre  fell— 

A  form  beside  her  stood. 

And  slowly  then  her  awe-struck  face 

And  frighted  eyes  she  raised ; 
Her  heart  leaped  high  :  those  clouded  orbs 

Grew  brighter  as  she  gazed  ; 
For  oh  !  they  rested  on  a  shape 

Majestic — yet  so  mild, 
Imperial  dignity  seemed  blent 

With  sweetness  of  a  child. 

It  spake  not,  but  that  saintlike  smile 

Was  full  of  mercy's  light, 
And  power  and  pity  from  those  eyes 

Looked  forth  in  gentle  might; 
Those  angel  looks,  that  lofty  mien, 

Have  breathed  without  a  word — 
"  Trust,  and  thy  faith  shall  win  thee  all : 

Behold,  I  am  thy  Lord  !" 

He  turns,  and  on  that  beauteous  clay 

His  godlike  glances  rest; 
Commandingly  the  pallid  brow 

His  potent  fingers  pressed  : 
The  frozen  current  flows  anew 

Beneath  that  quickening  hand  ; 
The  pale  lips,  softly  panting,  move  ; 

She  breathes  at  his  command ! 

The  spirit  in  its  kindred  realm 

Has  heard  its  Master's  call ; 
And  back  returning  at  that  voice, 

Resumes  its  earthly  thrall. 
And  now  from  'neath  those  snowy  lids 

It  shines  with  meeker  light, 
As  though  'twere  chastened,  purified, 

By  even  that  transient  flight. 

Loud ''swells  the  mother's  cry  of  joy  : 

To  Him  how  passing  sweet ! 
Her  child  she  snatches  to  her  breast, 

And  sinks  at  Jesus'  feet 
"  Glory  to  thee,  Almighty  God  ! 

Who  spared  my  heart  this  blow ; 
And  glory  to  thine  only  Son — 

My  Savior's  hand  I  know  !" 


ANNA    CORA    MO  WATT    RITCHIE. 


MY  LIFE. 

Mr  life  is  a  fairy's  guy  dream, 

And  thou  art  the  genii,  whose  wand 
Tints  all  things  around  with  the  beam, 

The  bloom  of  Titania's  bright  land. 
A  wish  to  my  lips  never  sprung, 

A  hope  in  mine  eyes  never  shone, 
But,  ere  it  was  breathed  by  my  tongue, 

To  grant  it  thy  footsteps  have  flown. 
Thy  joys,  they  have  ever  been  mine, 

Thy  sorrows,  too  often  thine  own  ; 
The  sun  that  on  me  still  would  shine, 

O'er  thee  threw  its  shadows  alone. 
Life's  garland  then  let  us  divide, 

Its  roses  I  'd  fain  see  thee  wear, 
For  one — but  I  know  thou  wilt  chide — 

Ah !  leave  me  its  thorns,  love,  to  bear  ! 


LOVE. 

THOU  conqueror's  conqueror,  mighty  Love !  to  thee 

Their  crowns,  their  laurels,  kings  and  heroes  yield ; 
Lo !  at  thy  shrine  great  Antony  bows  the  knee, 

Disdains  his  victor  wreath,  and  flies  the  field  ! 
From  woman's  lips  Alcides  lists  thy  tone, 

And  grasps  the  inglorious  distaff  for  his  sword. 
An  eastern  sceptre  at  thy  feet  is  thrown, 

A  nation's  worshipped  idol  owns  thee  lord ; 
And  well  fair  Noorjehan  his  throne  became, 
When  erst  she  ruled  his  empire  in  thy  name. 

The  sorcerer  Jarchas  could  to  age  restore 

Youth's  faded  bloom  or  childhood's  vanished  glee ; 
Magician  Love  !  canst  thou  not  yet  do  more  1 

Is  not  the  faithful  heart  kept  young  by  thee? 
But  ne'er  that,  traitor-b  >som  formed  to  stray, 

Those  perjured  lips  which  twice  thy  vows  have 

breathed, 
Can  know  the  raptures  of  thy  magic  sway, 

Or  find  the  balsam  in  thy  garland  wreathed ; 
Fancy  or  Folly  may  his  breast  have  moved, 
But  he  who  wanders  never  truly  loved. 


TIME. 

NAT,  rail  not  at  Time,  though  a  tyrant  he  be, 
\nd  say  not  he  cometh,  colossal  in  might, 
Our  beauty  to  ravish,  put  Pleasure  to  flight,    [tree  ; 

And  pluck  away  friends,  e'en  as  leaves  from  the 
And  say  not  Love's  torch,  which  like  Vesta's  should 

burn, 
The  cold  breath  of  Time  soon  to  ashes  will  turn. 

You  call  Time  a  robber  ?  Nay,  he  is  not  so : 
While  Beauty's  fair  temple  he  rudely  despoils, 
The  mind  to  enrich  with  its  plunder  he  toils; 

And,  sowed  in  his  furrows,  doth  wisdom  not  grow  ? 
The  magnet  mid  stars  points  the  north  still  to  view ; 
So  Time  'mong  our  friends  e'er  discloses  the  true. 

Tho'  cares  then  should  gather,  as  pleasures  flee  by, 
Tho'  Time  from  thy  features  the  charm  steal  away, 
He'll  dim  too  mine  eye,  lest  it  s«v  them  decay; 

And  sorrows  we've  shared  will  kni;  closer  love's  tie: 
Then  I  'II  laugh  at  old  Time,  and  at  all  he  can  do, 
For  he  '"1  rob  me  in  vain,  if  he  leave  me  but  you  ! 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

THY  will  be  done  !     O  heavenly  King, 

I  bow  my  head  to  thy  decree ; 
Albeit  my  soul  not  yet  may  wing 

Its  upward  flight,  great  God,  to  thee ! 
Though  I  must  still  on  earth  abide, 

To  toil,  and  groan,  and  suffer  here, 
To  seek  for  peace  on  sorrow's  tide, 

And  meet  the  world's  unfeeling  jeer. 
When  heaven  seemed  dawning  on  my  view 

And  I  rejoiced  my  race  was  run, 
Thy  righteous  hand  the  bliss  withdrew ; 

AnJ  still  I  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !" 
And  though  the  world  can  never  more 

A  world  of  sunshine  be  to  me, 
Though  all  my  fairy  dreams  are  o'er, 

And  Care  pursues  where'er  I  flee  ; 
Though  friends  I  loved — the  dearest — best, 

Were  scattered  by  the  storm  away, 
And  scarce  a  hand  I  warmly  pressed 

As  fondly  presses  mine  to-day  : 
Yet  must  I  live — must  live  for  those 

Who  mourn  the  shadow  on  my  brow, 
Who  feel  my  hand  can  soothe  their  woes. 

Whose  faithful  hearts  I  gladden  now. 
Yes,  I  will  live — live  to  fulfil  % 

The  nob'e  mission  scarce  begun, 
And  pressed  with  grief  to  murmur  still, 

All  Wise  !  All  Just !  «  Thy  will  be  done  !' 

ON  A  LOCK  OF   MY  MOTHER'S  HAIR 

WHOSK  the  eyes  thou  erst  didst  shade, 
Down  what  bosom  hast  thou  rolled, 

O'er  what  cheek  unchidden  played, 
Tress  of  mingled  brown  and  gold  ! 

Round  what  brow,  say,  didst  thou  twine  ? 

Angel-mother,  it  was  thine  ! 

Cold  the  brow  that  wore  this  braid, 

Pale  the  cheek  this  bright  lock  pressed, 

Dim  the  eyes  it  loved  to  shade, 
Still  the  ever-gentle  breast — 

All  that  bosom's  struggles  past, 

When  it  held  this  ringlet  last. 

In  that  happy  home  above, 

Where  all  perfect  joy  hath  birth, 
Thou  dispensest  good  and  love, 

Mother,  as  thou  didst  on  earth. 
And  though  distant  seems  that  sphere, 
Still  I  feel  thee  ever  near. 
Though  my  longing  eye  now  views 

Thy  angelic  mien  no  more, 
Still  thy  spirit  can  infuse 

Good  in  mine,  unknown  before. 
Still  the  voice,  from  childhood  dear, 
Steals  upon  my  raptured  ear — • 
Chiding  every  wayward  deed, 

Fondly  praising  every  just, 
Whispering  soft,  when  strength  I  need, 

"  Loved  one  !  place  in  God  thy  trust '" 
Oh,  'tis  more  than  joy  to  feel 
Thou  art  watching  o'er  my  weal  ! 


MARY    NOEL    MEIGS. 


THE  father  of  Miss  BLEECKER  (now  Mrs. 
MKIGS)  was  of  the  Bleecker  family  so  long 
distinguished  in  the  annals  of  New  York, 
and  among  her  paternal  connexions  were 
Mrs.  Anne  Eliza  Bleecker  and  Mrs.  Fau- 
geres,  whose  poems  have  been  commented 
upon  in  an  earlier  part  of  this  volume.  Her 
maternal  grandfather  was  the  late  Major  Wil- 
liarr  Popham,  the  last  survivor  of  the  staff 


of  Washington.  In  1834  Miss  Bleecker  wag 
married  to  Mr.  Pierre  E.  F.  McDonald,  who 
died  at  the  end  of  ten  years.  In  1845  she 
published  an  octavo  volume  entitled  Poems 
by  M.  N.  M.,  and  she  has  since  written  many 
poems  an4  prose  essays  for  the  magazines, 
besides  several  volumes  of  stories  for  chil 
dren,  &c.  In  the  autumn  of  1848  she  was 
married  to  Mr.  Henry  Meigs,  of  New  York. 


JUNE. 

LAUGHINGLY  thou  comest, 

Rosy  June, 

With  thy  light  and  tripping  feet, 
And  thy  garlands  fresh  and  sweet, 

A iid  thy  waters  all  in  tune ; 
With  thy  gift  of  buds  and  bells 
For  the  uplands  and  the  dells, 
With  the  wild-bird  and  the  bee 
On  the  blossom  or  the  tree, 
And  my  heart  leaps  forth  to  meet  thee, 
With  a  joyous  thrill  to  greet  thee, 

Rosy  June ; 

And  I  love  the  flashing  ray 
Of  the  rivulets  at  play, 
As  they  sparkle  into  day, 

Rosy  June  ! 

Most  lovely  do  I  call  thee, 
Laughing  June ! 

For  thy  skies  are  bright  and  blue, 
As  a  sapphire's  brilliant  hue, 

And  the  heats  of  summer  noon, 
Made  cooler  by  thy  breath — 
O'er  the  clover-scented  heath, 

Which  the  scythe  must  sweep  so  soon: 
And  tliou  fan'st  the  fevered  cheek 
With  thy  softest  gales  of  balm, 
Till  the  pulse  so  low  and  weak 

Beateth  stronger  and  more  calm. 
Kind  physician,  thou  dost  lend 
Like  a  tried  and  faithful  friend, 
To  the  suffering  and  the  weary  every  blessing  thou 

canst  bring; 

By  the  sick  man's  couch  of  pain, 
Like  an  angel,  once  again 

Thou  hast  shed  a  gift  of  healing  from  the  perfume- 
laden  wing  ; 

And  the  students  listless  ear, 
As  a  dreamy  sound  and  dear, 
Hath  Caught  a  pleasant  murmur  of  the  insect's  busy 

bum, 

Where  arching  branches  meet 
O'er  the  turf  beneath  his  feet, 


And  a  thousand  summer  fancies  with  the  melody 
have  come ; 

And  be  turneth  from  the  page 

Of  the  prophet  or  the  sage, 
And  forgetteth  all  the  wisdom  of  his  books; 

For  his  heart  is  roving  free 

With  the  butterfly  and  bee, 
And  chimeth  with  the  music  of  the  brooks, 

Singing  still  their  merry  tune 

In  the  flashing  light  of  noon, 
One  chord  of  thy  sweet  lyre,  laughing  June ! 

I  have  heart-aches  many  a  one, 

Rosy  June  ! 
And  I  sometimes  long  to  fly 

To  a  world  of  love  and  light, 
Where  the  flowerets  never  die, 

Nor  the  day  gives  place  to  night; 
Where  the  weariness  and  pain 

Of  this  mortal  life  are  o'er, 
And  we  fondly  clasp  again 

All  the  loved  ones  gone  before : 
And  I  think,  to  lay  my  head 
On  some  green  and  sheltered  bed, 

Where,  at  dawning  or  at  noon, 
Come  the  birds  with  liquid  note 
In  each  tender,  warbling  throat, 

Or  the  breeze  with  mournful  tune 
To  sigh  above  my  grave — 
Would  be  all  that  I  should  crave, 

Rosy  June ! 
But  when  thou  art  o'er  the  earth, 

With  thy  blue  and  tranquil  skies, 

And  thy  gushing  melodies, 
And  thy  many  tones  of  mirth — 
When  thy  flowers  perfume  the  air, 

And  thy  garlands  wreatbe  the  bough, 

And  thy  birthplace  even  now 
Seems  an  Eden  bright  and  fair — 
How  my  spirit  shrinks  away 

From  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 

And  I  shudder  at  its  gloom 
WThile  so  beautiful  the  day. 
Yet  I  know  the  skies  are  bright 
In  that  land  of  love  and  liffht, 
270 


MARY    NOEL    MEIGS. 


271 


Brighter,  fairer  than  thine  own,  lovely  June ! 

No  shadow  dims  the  ray, 

No  night  obscures  the  day, 
But  ever,  ever  reigneth  high  eternal  noon. 

A  glimpse  thou  art  of  heaven, 

Lovely  June  ! 
Type  of  a  purer  clime 
Beyond  the  flight  of  time, 
Where  the  amaranth  flowers  are  rife 
By  the  placid  stream  of  life, 
For  ever  gently  flowing  ; 
Where  the  beauty  of  the  rose 
In  that  land  of  soft  repose 
Nor  blight  nor  fading  knows, 

In  immortal  fragrance  blowing. 
And  my  prayer  is  still  to  see, 
In  thy  blessed  ministry, 
A  transient  gleam  of  regions  that  are  all  divinely 

fair ; 

A  foretaste  of  the  bliss 
In  a  holier  world  than  this, 

And  a  place  beside  the  loved  ones  who  are  safely 
gathered  there. 


THE  SPELLS  OF  MEMORY. 

IT  was  but  the  note  of  a  summer  bird, 
But  a  dream  of  the  past  in  my  heart  it  stirred, 
And  wafted  me  far  to  a  breezy  spot, 
Where  blossomed  the  blue  forget-me-not. 
A  nd  the  broad, green  boughs  gave  a  checkered  gleam 
To  the  dancing  waves  of  a  mountain-stream, 
And  there,  in  the  heat  of  a  summer  day, 
Again  on  the  velvet  turf  I  lay, 
And  saw  bright  shapes  in  the  floating  clouds, 
And  reared  fair  domes  mid  their  fleecy  shrouds, 
As  I  looked  aloft  to  the  azure  sky, 
And  longed  for  a  bird's  soft  plumes  to  fly, 
Till  lost  in  its  depths  of  purity. 

Alas !  I  have  waked  from  that  early  dream : 
Far,  far  away  is  the  mountain-stream; 
And  the  dewy  turf,  where  so  oft  I  lay, 
And  the  woodland  flowers,  they  are  far  away ; 
And  the  skies  that  once  were  to  me  so  blue, 
Now  bend  above  with  a  darker  hue : 
And  yet  I  may  wander  in  fancy  back 
At  Memory's  call  to  my  childhood's  track, 
And  the  fount  of  thought  hath  been  deeply  stirred 
By  the  passing  note  of  a  summer  bird. 

It  was  but  the  rush  of  the  autumn  wind, 
But  it  left  a  spell  of  the  past  behind, 
And  I  was  abroad  with  my  brothers  twain 
In  the  tangled  paths  of  the  wood  again  : 
Whore  the  leaves  were  rustling  beneath  our  feet, 
And  the  merry  shout  of  our  gleesome  mood 
Was  echoed  far  in  the  solitude, 
As  we  caught  the  prize  which  a  kindly  breeze 
Sent  down  in  a  shower  from  the  chestnut-trees. 

Oh !   a  weary  time  hath  passed  away 
Since  my  brothers  were  out  by  my  side  at  play ; 
A  weary  time,  with  its  weight  of  care, 
And  its  toil  in  the  city's  crowded  air, 
And  its  pining  wish  for  the  hilltops  high ; 
For  Ihn  laughing  stream  and  the  clear  blue  sky  ; 


For  the  shaded  de1.!,  and  the  leafy  halls 

Of  the  old  green  wood  where  the  sunlight  falls. 

But  I  see  the  haunts  of  my  early  days — 
The  old  green  wood  where  the  sunshine  plays, 
And  the  flashing  stream  in  its  course  of  light, 
And  the  hilltops  high,  and  the  sky  so  bright, 
And  the  silent  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  twilight  shadows  at  noonday  fell : 
And  the  mighty  charm  which  hath  conquered  these 
Is  naught,  save  a  rush  of  the  autumn  breeze. 

It  was  but  a  violet's  faint  perfume, 
But  it  bore  me  back  to  a  quiet  room, 
Where  a  gentle  girl  in  the  spring-time  gay 
Was  breathing  her  fair  young  life  away, 
Whose  light  through  the  rose-hued  curtains  fell, 
And  tinted  her  cheek  like  the  ocean-shell ; 
And  the  southern  breeze  on  its  fragrant  wings 
Stole  in  with  its  tale  of  all  lovely  things ;    [hours, 
Where  Love  watched  on  through  the  long,  long 
And  Friendship  came  with  its  gift  of  flowers; 
And  Death  drew  near  with  a  stealthy  tread, 
And  lightly  pillowed  in  dusl  her  head, 
And  sealed  up  gently  the  lids  so  fair, 
And  damped  the  brow  with  its  clustering  hair, 
And  left  the  maiden  in  slumber  deep, 
To  waken  no  more  from  that  tranquil  sleep. 

Then  we  laid  the  flower  her  hand  had  pressed 
To  wither  and  die  on  her  gentle  breast ; 
And  back  to  the  shade  of  that  quiet  room 
I  go  withjhe  violet's  faint  perfume. 


LOVE'S  ASPIRATION. 

WHAT  shall  I  ask  for  thee, 
Beloved,  when  at  the  silent  eve  or  golden  morn 
I  seek  the  Eternal  Throne  on  bended  knee, 
And  to  the  God  of  Love  my  soul  is  borne, 

Ascending  through  the  angel-guarded  air, 
On  the  swift  wings  of  Prayer  1 

W7hat  shall  I  ask  ?  the  bliss 

Of  earth's  poor  votaries  I  pleasures  that  must  fade 
As  dew  from  summer  blossom  1     Oh  !  for  this 
Thy  fresh  young  spirit,  dear  one,  was  not  made : 

Purer  and  holier  must  its  blessings  be — 
I  ask  not  this  for  thee 

For  thee,  fair  child,  for  thee, 
In  thy  fresh,  budding  girlhood,  shall  my  prayer 
Go  up  unceasing,  that  the  witchery 
Of  earthly  tones  alluring  may  not  snare 

Thy  heart  from  purer  things ;  but  God's  own  hand 
Lead  to  the  better  land. 

Ever  shall  Love  for  thee 
Implore  Heaven's  best  and  holiest  benison, 
Its  perfect  peace — that  peace  which  can  not  be 
The  gift  of  Earth ;  for  this  when  upward  borne 

My  soul  grows  earnest,  angel-lips  of  flame 
May  echo  thy  sweet  name. 

Ay,  in  their  world  of  light 
Immortal  voices  catch  a  mother's  praye- 
And  while  I  kneel,  some  waiting  seraph  bngn« 
Swift  on  expanded  wing,  the  boon  may  bear 

And,  soft  as  falling  dewdrops,  kindly  shed 
Heaven's  peace  o'er  thy  young  head. 


FRANCES    S.    ()  S  G  O  U  D. 


appears  the  poet,  and  the  affectionate  and 
enthusiastic  woman.  Cf  none  of  our  wri 
ters  has  the  excellence  been  more  steadily 
progressive.  Every  month  her  powers  have 
seemed  to  expand  and  her  sympathies  to 
deepen.  With  an  ear  delicately  susceptible 
to  the  harmonies  of  language,  and  a  light 
and  pleasing  fancy,  she  always  wrote  musi 
cally  and  ofien  with  elegance  ;  but  her  later 


poems  are  marked  by  a  freedom  of  style,  a 
tenderness  of  feeling,  and  a  wisdom  of  ap 
prehension,  and  are  informed  with  a  grace,  so 
undefinable,  but  so  pervading  and  attractive, 
that  the  consideration  to  which  she  is  enti 
tled  is  altogether  different  in  kind,  as  well  as 
in  degree,  from  that  which  was  awarded  to 
the  playful,  piquant,  and  capricious  impro 
visatrice  of  former  years. 


A  FAREWELL   TO  A  HAPPY  DAY. 

GOOH-RY,  good-by,  t.hou  gracious,  golden  day: 
Through  luminous  tears  thou  smilest,  far  away 
In  the  blue  heaven,  thy  sweet  farewell  to  me, 
And  I,  through  my  tears,  gaze  and  smile  with  thee. 
I  see  the  last  faint,  glowing  amber  gleam 
Of  thy  rich  pinion,  like  a  lovely  dream, 
Whose  floating  glory  melts  within  the  sky, 
And  now  thou  'rt  passed  for  ever  from  mine  eye  ! 
Were  we  not  friends — best  friends — my  cherished 
Did  I  not  treasure  every  eloquent  ray  [day  1 

Of  golden  light  arid  love  thou  gavest  me  1 
And  have  f  not  been  true — most  true  to  thee  1 
And  thcu — thou  earnest  like  a  joyous  bird, 
Whose   sacred  wings  by  heaven's  own  air  were 
And  lowly  sang  me  all  the  happy  time        [stirred, 
Dear,  soothing  stories  of  that  blissful  clime  ! 
And  more,  oh !  more  than  this,  there  came  with  thee, 
From  Heaven,  a  stranger,  rare  and  bright  to  me — 
A  new,  sweet  JOY — a  smiling  angel  guest, 
That  softly  asked  a  home  within  my  breast. 
For  talking  sadly  with  my  soul  alone, 
I  heard  far  off  and  faint  a  music  tone  : 
It  seemed  a  spirit's  call  —so  soft  it  stole 
On  fairy  wings  into  my  waiting  soul. 
I  knew  it  summoned  me  to  something  sweet, 
And  so  I  followed  it  with  faltering  feet — 
And  found — what  I  had  prayed  for  with  wild  tears — 
A  rest,  that  soothed  the  lingering  grief  of  years  ! 
So  for  that  deep,  perpetual  joy,  my  day  ! 
And  for  all  lovely  things  that  came  to  play 
In  thy  glad  smile — the  pure  and  pleading  flowers 
That  crowned  with  their  frail  bloom  thy  flying  hours : 
The  sunlit  clouds — the  pleasant  air  that  played 
Its  low  lute-music  mid  the  leafy  shade — 
.  Arid,  dearer  far,  the  tenderness  that  taught 
My  soul  a  new  and  richer  thrill  of  thought : 
For  these — for  all — bear  ihou  to  Heaven  for  me 
The  grateful  thanks  with  which  I  mission  thee ! 
Then  should  thy  sisters,  wasted,  wronged,  upbraid, 
Speak  thou  for  me — for  thou  wert  not  betrayed  ! 
'Twas  little,  true,  I  could  to  thee  impart — 
1,  with  my  simple,  frail,  and  wayward  heart ; 
But  that  I  strove  the  diamond  sands  to  light, 
In  Life's  rich  hour-glass,  with  Love's  rainbow  flight : 
And  that  one  generous  spirit  owed  to  me 
A  moment  of  exulting  ecstasy  ; 
A.nd  that  I  won  o'er  wrong  a  queenly  sway — 
For  this,  thou  'It  smile  for  me  in  Heaven,  my  Day  !  i 
'         18 


HAD  WE  BUT  MET. 

HAH  we  but  met  in  life's  delicious  spring, 

Ere  wrong  and  falsehood  taught  me  doubt  and  fear, 
Ere  hope  came  back  with  worn  and  wounded  wing, 

To  die  upon  the  heart  she  could  not  cheer : 
Ere  I  love's  precious  pearl  had  vainly  lavished, 

Pledging  an  idol  deaf  to  my  despair — 
Ere  one  by  one  the  buds  and  blooms  were  ravished 

From  life's  rich  garland  by  the  clasp  of  Care. 
Ah,  had  we  then  but  met !    I  dare  not  listen 

To  the  wild  whispers  of  my  fancy  now ! 
My  full  heart  beats — my  sad,  drooped  lashee  glisten 

I  hear  the  music  of  thy  boyhood's  vow  ! 
I  see  thy  dark  eyes  lustrous  with  love's  meaning, 

I  feel  thy  dear  hand  softly  clasp  my  own  ; 
Thy  noble  form  is  fond'y  o'er  me  leaning — 

It  is  too  much — but  ah  !  the  dream  has  flown  I 
How  had  I  poured  this  passionate  heart's  devotion 

In  voiceless  rapture  on  thy  manly  breast; 
How  had  I  hushed  each  sorrowful  emotion, 

Lulled  by  thy  love  to  sweet,  untroubled  re&t ! 
How  had  I  knelt  hour  after  hour  beside  thee, 

When  from  thy  lips  the  rare,  scholastic  lore 
Fell  on  the  soul  that  all  but  deified  thee, 

While  at  each  pause,  I.  childlike,  prayed  for  n.ore  • 
How  had  I  watched  the  shadow  of  each  feeling 

That  moved  thy  soul,  glance  o'er  that  radiant  face, 
"Taming  my  wild  heart"  to  that  dear  revealiiig, 

And  glorying  in  thy  genius  and  thy  grace  : 
Then  hadst  thou  loved  me  with  a  love  abiding, 

And  I  had  now  been  less  unworthy  thee ; 
For  I  was  generous,  gui'eless,  and  confiding — 

A  frank  enthusiast — buoyant,  fresh,  and  free. 
But  now,  my  loftiest  aspirations  perished, 

My  holiest  hopes — a  jest  for  lips  profane- 
The  tenderest  yearnings  of  my  soul  uncherisned— 

A  sou'-worn  slave  in  Custom's  iron  chain  : 
Checked  by  those  tics  that  make  my  lightest  sign, 

My  faintest  blush,  at  thought  of  thee,  a  crime  • 
How  must  I  still  my  heart,  and  school  my  eye, 

And  count  in  vain  the  slow,  dull  steps  of  Timt ! 
W  ilt  thou  come  back  1  Ah !  what  avails  to  ask  thee, 

Since  Honor,  Faith,  forbid  thee  to  return  1 
Yet  to  forgetfulncss  I  dare  not  task  tbee, 

Lest  thou  too  soon  that  easy  lesson  leani ' 
Ah,  come  not  back,  love !  even  through  memory's  eai 

Thy  tone's  melodious  murmur  thrills  my  heart: 
Come  not  with  that  fond  smile,  so  frank,  so  dear- 
While  yet  we  may,  let  us  for  ever  part ! 


274 


FRANCES    S.   OSGOOD. 


TO   THE   SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

LE  A.VK  me  not  yet !    Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  dear  ideal  of  rny  pining  heart! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  beautiful — the  only, 

Whom  I  would  keep,  though  a  1  the  world  depart. 
Thou,  that  dost  veil  the  frailest  flower  with  glory, 

Spirit  of  light,  and  loveliness,  and  truth  ! 
Thou  that  didst  tell  me  a  sweet,  fairy  story, 

Of  the  dim  future,  in  my  wistful  youth  ; 
Thou,  who  canst  weave  a  halo  round  the  spirit, 

Through  which  naught  mean  or  evil  dare  intrude, 
Re>ume  not  yet  the  gift,  which  I  inherit 

From  Heaven  and  :thee,  that  dearest,  holiest  good  ! 
Leave  me  not  now  !    Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  starry  prophet  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  tenderest — the  only, 

With  whom,  of  all,  'twould  be  despair  to  part. 

Thou  that  cam'st  to  me  in  my  dreaming  childhood, 

Shaping  the  changeful  clouds  to  pageants  rare, 
Peopling  the  smiling  vale  and  shaded  wildwood 

With  airy  beings,  faint  yet  strangely  fair ; 
Telling  me  ah  the  seaborn  breeze  was  saying, 

While  it  went  whispering  thro'  the  willing  leaves, 
Bidding  me  listen  to  the  light  rain  playing 

Its  pleasant  tune  about  the  household  eaves ; 
Tuning  the  low,  sweet  ripp'.e  of  the  river, 

Ti'.l  its  melodious  murmur  seemed  a  song, 
A  tender  and  sad  chant,  repeated  ever, 

A  sweet,  impassioned  plaint  of  love  and  wrong- 
Leave  me  not  yet !     Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  star  of  promise  o'er  my  clouded  path ! 
Leave  not  the  life  that  borrows  from  thee  only 

All  of  delight  and  beauty  that  it  hath. 

Thou,  that  when  others  knew  not  how  to  love  me, 

Nor  cared  to  fathom  half  my  yearning  soul, 
Didst  wreathe  thy  flowers  of  light  around,  above  me, 

To  woo  and  win  me  from  my  grief's  control : 
By  all  my  dreams,  the  passionate  and  holy, 

When  thou  hast  sung  love's  lullaby  to  me, 
By  all  the  childlike  worship,  fond  and  lowly, 

Which  I  have  lavished  upon  thine  and  thee ; 
By  all  the  lays  my  simple  lute  was  learning, 

To  echo  from  thy  voice,  stay  with  me  still ! 
Once  flown — a'as!  for  thee  there's  no  returning : 

The  charm  will  die  o'er  valley,  wood,  and  hill. 
Tell  me  not  Time,  whose  wing  my  brow  has  shaded, 

Has  wither' d  spring'ssweet  bloom  within  my  heart: 
Ah.  no  !  ilie  rose  of  love  is  yet  unfaded, 

Though  hope  an4  joy.  its  sister  flowers,  depart. 
Well  do  I  know  that  I  have  wronged  thine  altar 

With  the  light  offerings  of  an  idler's  mind. 
And  thus,  with  shame,  my  pleading  prayer  I  falter, 

Leave  me  not,  spirit !  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind  : 
Deaf  to  the  mystic  harmony  of  Nature, 

Blind  to  t'.ie  beauty  of  her  stars  and  flowers; 
Leave  rne  not,  heavenly  yet  hirnan  teacher, 

Lonely  and  lost  in  this  cold  world  of  ours. 
Heaven  knows  I  need  thy  music  and  thy  beauty 

Still  to  beguile  me  on  my  weary  way, 
To  lighten  to  my  soul  the  cares  of  duty, 

And  b  ess  with  radiant  dreams  the  darkened  day  : 
To  cnarm  my  wild  heart  in  the  worldly  revel, 

L*est  J,  too,  join  the  aimless,  false,  and  vain; 


Let   me    not    lower  to  the  soulless  level 
Of  those  whom  now  I  pity  and  disdain. 

Leave  me  not  yet — leave  me  not  cold  and  pining, 
Thou  bird  of  paradise,  whose  plumes  of  light. 

Where'er  they  rested,  left  a  glory  sinning ; 
Fly  not  to  heaven,  or  let  me  share  thy  flight. 


REFLECTIONS. 

ASK  why  the  holy  starlight,  or  the  blush 
Of  summer  blossoms,  or  the  balm  that  floats 
From  yonder  lily  like  an  angel's  breath, 
Is  lavished  on  such  men !     God  gives  them  all 
For  some  high  end ;  and  thus  the  seeming  waste 
Of  her  rich  soul — its  starlight  purity, 
Its  every  feeling  delicate  as  a  flower, 
Its  tender  trust,  its  generous  confidence, 
Its  wondering  disdain  of  littleness — 
These,  by  the  coarser  sense  of  those  around  her 
U ncomprehended,  may  not  all  be  vain : 
But  win  them — they  unwitting  of  the  spell — 
Bv  ties  unfelt,  to  nobler,  loftier  life. 
And  they  dare  blame  her !  they  whose  every  thought, 
Look,  utterance,  act,  has  more  of  evil  in ' t, 
Than  e'er  she  dreamed  of  or  could  understand ; 
And  she  must  blush  before  them,  with  a  heart 
Whose  lightest  throb  is  worth  their  all  of  life  ! 
They  boast  their  charity :  oh,  idle  boast ! 
They  give  the  poor,  forsooth,  food,  fuel,  shelter; 
Faint,  chill'd,  and  worn,  her  ?oul  imp'ored  a  pittance, 
Her  soul  asked  alms  of  theirs  and  was  denied ! 

It  was  not  much  it  came  a-begging  for, 
A  simple  boon,  only  a  gent'e  thought, 
A  kindly  judgment  of  such  deeds  of  hers 
As  passed  their  understanding,  but  to  her 
Seemed  natural  as  the  blooming  of  a  flower : 
For  God  taught  her — but  they  had  learned  of  men 
Their  meagre  task  of  how  to  mete  out  love, 
A  selfish,  sensual  love,  most  unlike  hers. 
God  taught  the  tendril  where  to  cling,  and  she 
Learned  the  same  lovely  lesson,  with  the  same 
Unquestioning  and  pliant  trust  in  Him. 

And  yet  that  He  should  let  a  lyre  of  heaven 
Be  played  on  by  such  hands,  with  touch  so  rude, 
Might  wake  a  doubt  in  less  than  perfect  faith, 
Perfect  as  mine,  in  his  beneficence. 


LENORE. 

On  !  fragi  e  and  fair,  as  the  delicate  cha  ices, 
WTrought  with  so  rare  and  subtle  a  skill, 

Bright  relics,  that  tell  of  the  pomp  of  those  palaces, 
Venice — the  sea-goddess — glories  in  still. 

Whose  exquisite  texture,  transparent  and  tender, 
A  pure  blush  a'one  from  the  ruby  wine  takes; 

Yet  ah  !  if  some  fa'se  hand,  profaning  its  splendor, 
Dares  but  to  tain  it  with  poison — it  breaks ! 

So  when  Love  poured  through  thy  pure  heart  hia 
lightning, 

On  thy  pale  cheek  the  soft  rose-hues  awoke — 
So  when  wild  Passion,  that  timid  heart  frightening 

Poisoned  the  treasure — it  trembled  and  broke  ! 


FRANCES    S.  OSGOOD. 


THE  COCOA-NUT  TREE. 

On,  the  green  and  the  graceful — the  cocoa-nut  tree ! 
The  lone  and  the  lofty— it  loves  like  me 
The  flash,  the  foam  of  the  heaving  sea, 
And  the  sound  of  the  surging  waves 
In  the  shore's  unfathorned  caves  : 
With  its  state'y  shaft,  and  its  verdant  crown, 
And  its  fruit  in  clusters  drooping  down — 
Some  of  a  soft  and  tender  green, 
And  some  all  ripe  and  brown  between, 
And  flowers,  loo,  blending  their  lovelier  grace 
Like  a  blush  through  the  tresses  on  Beauty's  face. 
Oh,  the  lovely,  the  free, 
The  cocoa-nut  tree, 
Is  the  tree  of  a!l  trees  for  me  ! 

The  willow,  it  waves  with  a  tenderer  motion, 
The  oak  and  the  elm  with  more  majesty  rise ; 

But  give  me  the  cocoa,  that  loves  the  wild,  ocean, 
And  shadows  the  hut  where  the  is'and-girl  lies. 

In  the  Nicobar  islands,  each  cottage  you  see, 
Is  built  of  the  trunk  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree, 
While  its  leaves  matted  thickly,  and  many  times  o'er, 
Make  a  thatch  for  its  roof  and  a  mat  for  its  floor; 
Its  shel  s  the  dark  islander's  beverage  hold — 
"fis  a  goblet  as  pure  as  a  goblet  of  gold. 

Oh,  the  cocoa-nut  tree, 

That  blooms  by  the  sea, 
Is  the  tree  of  all  trees  for  me  ! 

In  the  Nicobar  isles  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree, 
They  build  the  light  shallop — the  wild,  the  free ; 
They  weave  of  its  fibres  so  firm  a  sail. 
It  will  weather  the  rudest  southern  gale ; 
They  fill  it  with  oil,  and  with  coarse  jaggree — 
With  arrack  and  coir,  from  the  cocoa-nut  tree. 

The  lone,  the  free, 

That  dwells  in  the  roar 

Of  the  echoing  shore — 
Oh,  the  cocoa-nut  tree  for  me  ! 
Rich  is  the  cocoa-nut's  milk  and  meat, 
And  its  wine,  the  pure  palm-wine,  is  sweet; 
It  is  like  the  bright  spirits  we  sometimes  meet — 

The  wine  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree  : 
For  they  tie  up  the  embryo  bud's  soft  wing, 
From  which  the  Irossoms  and  nuts  would  spring ; 
And  thus  forbidden  to  bless  with  bloom 
Its  native  air,  and  with  soft  perfume, 
The  subtle  spirit  that  struggles  there 
Distils  an  essence  more  rich  and  rare, 
And  instead  of  a  blossom  and  fruitage  birth, 
The  delicate  palm-wine  oozes  forth. 

Ah,  thus  to  the  child  of  genius,  too, 

The  rose  of  beauty  is  oft  denied ; 
But  a'l  the  richer,  that  high  heart,  through 

The  torrent  of  feeling  pours  its  tide, 
And  purer  and  fonder,  and  far  more  true, 
Is  that  passionate  sou!  in  its  lonely  pride. 
Oh,  the  fresh,  the  free, 
The  cocoa-nut  tree, 
Is  the  tree  of  all  trees  for  me  ! 
The  glowing  sky  of  the  Indian  isles, 
Lovingly  over  the  cocoa-nut  smiles, 
And  the  Indian  maiden  lies  below, 
\V  hero  its  leaves  their  graceful  shadow  throw  : 


She  weaves  a  wreath  of  the  rosy  shelh 

That  gem  the  beach  where  the  cocoa  dwells ; 

She  binds  them  into  her  long  black  hair, 

And  they  b'.ush  in  the  braids  like  rosebuds  there; 

Her  soft  brown  arm,  and  her  graceful  neck, 

With  those  ocean-blooms  she  joys  to  deck. 

Oh,  wherever  you  see 

The  cocoa-nut  tree, 
There  will  a  picture  of  beauty  be  ! 


A   MOTHER'S  PRAYER  IN  ILLNESS. 

YKS,  take  them  first,  my  Father  !  Let  my  doves 
Fold  their  white  wings  in  heaven,  safe  on  thy  breast, 
Ere  I  am  called  away  :  I  dare  not  leave  [hearts! 
Their  young  hearts  here,  their  innocent,  thoughtless 
Ah,  how  the  shadowy  train  of  future  ills 
Comes  sweeping  down  life's  vista  as  I  gaze  ! 

My  May  !   my  careless,  ardent-tempered  May — 
My  frank  and  frolic  child,  in  whose  blue  eyes 
Wild  joy  and  passionate  wo  alternate  rise ; 
Whose  cheek  the  morning  in  her  soul  illumes; 
Whose  little,  loving  heart  a  word,  a  glance, 
Can  sway  to  grief  or  glee  ;  who  leaves  her  play, 
And  puts  up  her  sweet  mouth  and  dimpled  arms 
Each  moment  for  a  kiss,  and  softly  asks, 
W7ith  her  clear,  flutelike  voice,  "  Do  you  love  me  1" 
Ah,  let  me  stay  !  ah,  let  me  still  be  by, 
To  answer  her  and  meet  her  warm  caress  ! 
For  I  away,  how  oft  in  this  rough  world 
That  earnest  question  will  be  asked  in  vain  ! 
How  oft  that  eager,  passionate,  petted  heart, 
Will  shrink  abashed  and  chilled,  to  learn  at  length 
The  hateful,  withering  lesson  of  distrust ! 
Ah  !  let  her  nestle  still  upon  this  breast, 
In  which  each  shade  that  dims  her  darling  face 
Is  felt  and  answered,  as  the  lake  reflects 
The  clouds  that  cross  yon  smiling  heaven  !  andthou, 
My  modest  Ellen — tender,  thoughtful,  true; 
Thy  soul  attuned  to  all  sweet  harmonies  : 
My  pure,  proud,  noble  Ellen  !  with  thy  gifts 
Of  genius,  grace,  and  loveliness,  half  hidden 
'Neath  the  soft  veil  of  innate  modesty, 
How  will  the  world's  wi'd  discord  reach  thy  heart 
To  startle  and  appal  !     Thy  generous  scorn 
Of  all  things  base  and  mean — thy  quick,  keen  taste, 
Dainty  and  delicate— thy  instinctive  fear 
Of  those  unworthy  of  a  soul  so  pure, 
Thy  rare,  unchildlike  dignity  of  mien, 
All — they  will  all  bring  pain  to  thee,  my  child  ! 
And  oh,  if  even  their  grace  and  goodness  meet 
Cold  looks  and  careless  greetings,  how  will  all 
The  latent  evil  yet  undisciplined 
In  their  young,  timid  souls,  forgiveness  find  ? 
Forgiveness,  and  forbearance,  and  soft  chiding*, 
WThich  I,  their  mother,  learned  of  Love  to  give ! 
Ah,  let  me  stay  !— albeit  my  heart  is  weary, 
Weary  and  worn,  tired  of  its  own  sad  beat, 
That  finds  no  echo  in  this  busy  world 
Which  can  not  pause  to  answer — tired  alike 
Of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  the  day  and  night  : 
Ah,  take  them  first,  my  Father,  and  then  me  I 
And  for  their  sakes,  for  their  sweet  sakes,  my  Father 
Lei  me  find  rest  beside  them,  at  thy  feet ! 


FRANCES    S.   OSGOOD. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

"Of  sv.rh  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

A  xi)  yet  we  check  and  chide 
The  airy  angels  as  they  float  about  us, 
With  rules  of  so-called  wisdom,  till  they  grow 
The  same  tarne  slaves  to  custom  and  the  world. 
And  day  by  day  the  fresh  frank  soul  that  looked 
Out  of  those  wistful  eyes,  and  smiling  played 
With  the  wild  roses  of  that  changing  cheek, 
And  modulated  a'l  those  earnest  tones, 
And  danced  in  those  light  foot-falls  to  a  tune 
Heart-heard  by  them,  inaudible  to  us, 
Folds  closer  its  pure  wings,  whereon  the  hues 
They  caught  in  heaven  already  pale  and  pine, 
And  shrinks  amazed  and  scared  back  from  our  gaze. 
And  so  the  evil  grows.     The  graceful  flower 
May  have  its  own  sweet  way  in  bud  and  bloom — 
May  drink,  and  dare  with  upturned  gaze  the  light, 
Or  nest'e  'neath  the  guardian  leaf,  or  wave 
Tts  fragrant  be'ls  to  every  roving  breeze, 
Or  wreathe  with  b'ushinT  grace  the  fragile  spray 
In  bashful  loveliness.     The  wild  wood-bird 
May  p'ume  at  will  his  wings,  and  soir  or  sing  ; 
The  mountain  brook  may  wind  where'er  it  would, 
Dash  in  wild  music  down  the  deep  ravine, 
Or,  ripp'ing  drowsily  in  forest  haunts, 
Dream  of  the  floating  cloud,  the  waving  flower, 
And  murmur  to  itse'f  sweet  lulling  words 
In  broken  tones  so  like  the  faltering  speech 
Of  early  childhood  :  but  our  human  flowers, 
Our  soul-birds,  caged  and  pining — they  must  sing 
And  grow,  not  as  their  own  but  our  caprice 
Suggests,  and  so  the  blos^on  and  the  lay 
Are  but  half  bloom  and  music  at  the  best. 
And  if  by  chance  some  brave  and  buoyant  soul, 
More  bold  or  less  forgetful  of  the  lessons 
God  taught  them  first,  disdain  the  rule — the  bar — 
And,  wildly  beautiful,  rebellious  rise, 
How  the  hard  world,  half  startled  from  itself, 
Frowns  the  bright  wanderer  down,  or  turns  away, 
And  leaves  her  lonely  in  her  upward  path. 
Thank  God  !  to  such  his  smile  is  not  denied. 


A  SERMON. 

Tnou  discord  in  this  choral  harmony  ! 
That  dost  profane  the  loveliest  light  and  air 
God  ever  gave :  be  still,  and  look,  and  listen  . 
Canst  see  yon  fair  cloud  floating  in  the  sun, 
And  blush  not,  watching  its  serener  life  ? 
Canst  hear  the  fragrant  grass  grow  up  toward  God, 
With  low,  perpetual  chant  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Nor  grieve  that  your  soul  grows  the  other  way  1 
Forego  that  tone,  made  harsh  by  a  hard  heart, 
And  hearken,  if  you're  not  afraid  to  hearken, 
Yon  robin's  careless  carol,  glad  and  sweet, 
Mockn.g  the  sunshine  with  his  merry  trill  : 
Suppose  you  try  to  chord  your  voice  with  his — 
13<it  first,  learn  love  and  wisdom  of  him,  lady  ! 

How  dare  you  bring  your  inharmonious  heart 
To  such  a  scene  1     How  dare  you  let  your  voice 
Tulk  out  ot  tune  so  with  the  voice  of  God 
In  oa»rti  and  sky  1     The  balmy  air  about  ycxi 


Is  Heaven's  great  gift,  vouchsafed  to  you  to  make 
Vocal  with  all  melodious  truths,  and  you 
Fret  it  with  false  words,  from  a  falser  soul, 
And  poison  it  with  the  breath  of  calumny  ! 
Learn  reverence,  bold  one,  for  true  Nature's  heart, 
If  not  for  that  your  sister  woman  bears  ! 
For  Nature's  heart,  p'eading  in  every  wave, 
That  wastes  its  wistfu1  music  at  your  feet. 

Take  back  your  cold,  inane,  and  carping  mind 
Into  the  world  you  came  from  and  belong  to — 
The  world  of  common  cares  and  sordid  aims  : 
These  happy  haunts  can  spare  ycu,  little  one  ! 
The  dew-fed  grass  will  grow  as  well  without  you, 
The  woodland  choirs  will  scarce  require  your  voice, 
The  starlit  wave  without  your  smile  will  g'isien, 
The  proud  patrician  trees  will  miss  you  not. 

Go,  waste  God's  glorious  boon  of  summer  hours 
Among  your  mates,  as  sha'low,  in  sma'l  talk 
Of  dress,  or  weather,  or  the  last  elopement ! 
Go,  mar  the  canvass  with  distorted  face 
Of  dog  or  cat;  or  worse,  profanely  mock, 
With  gaudy  beads,  the  pure  light-painted  flower ! 
Go.  trim  your  cap,  embroider  your  visite, 
Crocher  a  purse,  do  any  petty  thing  : 
But,  in  the  name  of  truth,  religion,  beauty, 
Let  Nature's  marvellous  mystery  alone, 
Nor  ask  such  airs,  such  skies,  to  waste  the  wealth 
They  keep  for  nobler  beings,  upon  you  ! 
Or  stay,  and  learn  of  every  bird  and  bloom, 
That  sends  its  heart  to  Heaven  in  song  or  sigh, 
The  lesson  that  you  need — the  law  of  love  ! 


THE  CHILD  PLAYING  WITH  A  WATCH. 

ART  thou  playing  with  Time  in  thv  sweet  baby- 
glee  ? 

WTill  he  pause  on  his  pinions  to  frolic  with  thee  7 
Oh,  show  him  those  shadowless,  innocent  eves, 
That  smile  of  bewi'dered  and  beaming  surprise ; 
Let  him  look  on  that  cheek  where  thy  rich  hair 

*  reposes, 

Where  dimples  are  play  ing  "  bopeep"  with  the  roses: 
His  wrinkled  brow  press  with  light  kisses  and  warm, 
And  clasp  his  rough  neck  with  thy  soft  wreathing 

arm. 

Perhaps  thy  bewitching  and  infantine  sweetness 
May  win  him,  for  once,  to  delay  in  his  fleetness — • 
To  pause,  ere  he  rifle,  relent'ess  in  flight, 
A  blossom  so  glowing  of  bloom  and  of  light  : 
Then,  then  would  I  keep  thee,  my  beautiful  child, 
With  thy  blue  eyes  unshadowed,  thy  blush  unde- 

filed— 

With  thy  innocence  only  to  guard  thee  from  ill, 
In  life's  sunny  dawning,  a  lily-bud  still  ! 
Laugh  on,  my  own  Ellen  !   that  voice,  which  to  mo 
Gives  a  warning  so  solemn,  makes  music  for  thee 
And  while  I  at  those  sounds  feel  the  idler's  annoy, 
Thou  hear'st  but  the  tick  of  the  pretty  gold  toy ; 
Thou  seest  but  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  churl- 
May  his  frown  never  awe  thee,  my  own  baby-girl. 
And  oh,  may  his  step,  as  he  wanders  with  thee, 
Light  and  soft  as  thine  own  little  fairy  tread  be  ! 
While  still  in  all  seasons,  in  storms  and  fair  weather. 
May  Time  and  my  Ellen  be  playmates  together. 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 


277 


LABOR. 

PATS:-:  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us: 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  us; 
Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 

Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  Heaven  ! 
Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  Rosehcart  keeps  glowing, 

Ti  1  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"  Labor  is  worship  !" — the  robin  is  singing  : 
"  Labor  is  worship  !" — the  wild  bee  is  ringing  : 
Listen  !  that  eloquent  whisper  upspringing 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart. 
From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft  breathing  flower ; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower ; 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labor  is  life  ! — 'T  is  the  still  water  faileth; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assaileth ! 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labor  is  gory  ! — the  flying  cloud  lightens; 
On  y  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens  :     [tune ! 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  in 

Labor  is  rest — from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us ; 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us, 

Rest  from  world-syrens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow ; 
Work — thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  Wo's  weeping  willow  ! 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will ! 

Labor  is  health — Lo  !  the  husbandman  reaping, 
How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life-current  leaping ! 
How  his  strong  arm  in  its  stalwart  pride  sweeping, 

True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides. 
Labor  is  wealth — in  the  sea  the  pearl  groweth ; 
Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon  floweth ; 
From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  bloweth ; 

Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block  hides. 

Droop  not  tho'shame,sin  and  anguish  are  round  thee! 
Bravely  fliiTg  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee ! 
Look  to  yon  pure  heaven  smiling  beyond  thee  : 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness — a  clod  ! 
Work — for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly ; 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly : 
Labor ! — all  labor  is  noble  and  holy  : 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God. 


GARDEN   GOSSIP, 

ACCOUNTING  FOR  THE  COOLNESS   BETWEEN  THE 
LILY  AND   VIOLET. 

"T  WILL  tell  you  a  secret,"  the  honeybee  said, 
To  a  violet  drooping  her  dew-laden  head  ; 
"  The  lily 's  in  love  !  for  she  listened  last  night, 
While  her  sisters  all  slept  in  the  holy  moonlight, 
To  a  zephyr  that  just  had  been  rocking  the  rose, 
Where,  hidden,  I  hearkened  in  seeming  repose. 


''  I  would  not  betray  her  to  any  but  you ; 
But  the  secret  is  safe  with  a  spirit  so  true — • 
It  will  rest  in  your  bosom  in  silence  profound." 
The  violet  bent  her  blue  eye  to  the  ground : 
A  tear  and  a  smile  in  her  loving  look  lav, . 
While  the  light-wingt'd  gossip  went  whirring  away. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  the  honeybee  said, 
And  the  young  lily  lifted  her  beautiful  head 
"  The  vio'et  thinks,  with  her  timid  blue  eye, 
To  pass  for  a  blossom  enchantingly  shy ; 
But  for  all  her  sweet  manners,  so  modest  and  pure, 
She  gossips  with  every  gay  bird  that  sings  to  her. 

"  Now  let  me  advise  you,  sweet  flower,  as  a  frieru1., 
Oh,  ne'er  to  such  beings  your  confidence  lend ; 
It  grieves  me  to  see  one,  all  guileless  like  you, 
Thus  wronging  a  spirit  so  trustful  and  true : 
But  not  for  the  world,  love,  my  secret  betray !" 
And  the  little  light  gossip  went  buzzing  away. 

A  blush  in  the  li'y's  cheek  trembled  and  fled : 
"  I'm  sorry  he  told  me,"  she  tenderly  said  ; 
'If  T  mayn't  trust  the  vio'et.  pure  as  she  seems, 
I  must  fold  in  my  own  heart  my  beautiful  dreams." 
Was  the  mischief  well  managed  !  fair  lady  is't  true! 
Did  the  light  garden  gossip  take  lessons  of  you,  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

OH,  no  !  never  deem  her  less  worthy  of  love, 
That  once  she  has  trusted,  and  trusted  in  vain ! 

Could  you  turn  from  the  timid  and  innocent  dove, 
If  it  flew  to  your  breast  from  a  savage's  chain  ] 

She,  too,  is  a  dove,  in  her  guileless  affection, 
A  child  in  confiding  and  worshipping  truth ; 

Half  broken  in  heart,  she  has  flown  for  protection 
To  you :  will  you  chill  the  sweet  promise  of  youth  1 

To  a  being  so  fragile,  affection  is  life : 
A  rosebud,  unblessed  by  a  smile  from  above, 

Wrhen  with  bloom  and  with  fragrance  its  bosom  is 

rife — 
A  bee  without  sweets — she  must  perish  or  love  ! 

You  have  heard  of  those  magical  circles  of  flowers, 
Which  in  places  laid  waste  by  the  lightning  are 

found  ; 
Where  they  say  that  the  fairies  have  charmed  the 

night  bouts. 

With    their   luminous    footsteps    enriching   the 
ground. 

Believe  me — the  passion  she^ cherished  of  yore, 
That  brought,  like  the  storm-flash,  at  once  on  its 
wing 

Destruction  and  splendor,  like  that  hurried  o'er, 
And  left  in  its  track  but  the  wild  fairy-ring- 

All  rife  with  fair  blossoms  of  fancy,  and  feeling. 
And  hope,  that  spring  forth  from  the  desolate 

gloom. 
And  whose  breath  in  rich  incense   is  softly  up 

Btea'ing, 
To  brighten  your  pathway  with  beauty  and  bloom. 


FRANCES    S.   OSGOOD. 


KUllYDICE. 

WITH  heart  that  thri  led  to  every  earnest  line, 

I  had  been  reading  o'er  that  antique  story, 
Wherein  tin-  youth  halt'  human,  half  divine, 

Of  a  1  love-lore  the  Kidolun  and  jjory, 
Child  of  tlie  Sun,  with  Music's  pleading  spell, 
[n  Pluto's  palace  swept,  for  love,  his  golden  shell  ! 

And  in  the  wi.'d,  sweet  legend,  dimly  traced, 

My  own  heart's  history  unfo  ded  seemed: 
Ah,  lost  one  !   by  thy  iover-min.strel  graced 

With  homage  pure  as  ever  woman  dreamed, 

Too  fondly  worshipped,  since  such  fate  befell, 

Was  it  not  sweet  to  die-— because  beloved  too  well  ? 

The  scene  is  round  me. — Throned  amid  the  gloom, 

As  a  flower  smiles  on  ^Etna's  fatal  breast, 
Young  Proserpine  beside  her  lord  doth  bloom; 

And  near — of  Orpheus'  soul,  oh,  idol  blest! — 
Whi  e  low  for  thec  he  tunes  his  lyre  of  light, 
I  see  thy  meek,  fair  form  dawn  through  that  lurid 
night ! 

I  see  the  glorious  buy — his  dark  locks  wreathing 

Wildly  the  wan  and  spiritual  brow  ; 
His  sweet,  curved  lip  the  soul  of  music  breathing  ; 
His  blue  Greek  eyes,  that  speak  Love's  loyal  vo  w ; 
I  see  him  bend  on  thee  that  eloquent  glance, 
The  while  those  wondrous  notes  the  realm  of  terror 
trance. 

I  see  his  face,  with  more  than  mortal  heauty 
Kindling,  as,  armed  with  that  sweet  lyre  alone, 

Pledged  to  a  holy  and  heroic  duty, 
He  stands  serene  before  the  awful  throne, 

And  looks  on  Hades'  horrors  with  c'ear  eyes, 
Since  thou,  his  own  adored  Eurydice,  art  nigh  ! 

Now  soft  and  low  a  prelude  sweet  uprings, 

As  if  a  prisoned  ange! — pleading  there 
For  life  and  love — were  fettered  'neath  the  strings, 

And  poured  his  passionate  soul  upon  the  air! 
Anon  it  clangs  with  wild,  exultant  swell, 
Till  the  full  pajan  peals  triumphantly  through  hell ! 

And  thou,  thy  pa1  e  hands  meekly  lock'd  before  thee, 
Thy  sa«l  eves  drinking  life  from  his  dear  gaze 

Thy  lips  apart— thy  hair  a  halo  o'er  thee, 
Trailing  around  thy  throat  its  golden  maze 

Thus,  with  all  words  in  passionate  silence  dying, 
Within  thy  soul  I  hear  Love's  eager  voice  replying  : 

"  Play  on,  mine  Orpheus  !     Lo  !  while  these  are 
gazing, 

Charmed  into  statues  hy  thy  God-taught  strain, 
I — I  alone,  to  thy  dear  face  upraising 

My  tearful  glance,  the  life  of  life  regain  ; 
For  every  tone  that  steals  into  my  heart 
Doth  to  its  worn,  weak  pulse  a  mighty  power  impart. 

Play  on,  mine  Orpheus !  while  thy  music  floats 
Through  the  dread  realm,  divine  with  truth  and 

grace, 
See,  dear  one,  how  the  chain  of  linked  notes 

Mas  fettered  every  spirit  in  its  place  ! 
Even  Death,  beside  rue,  still  and  helpless  lies; 
AJK!  strives  in  vain  to  chill  my  frame  with  his  cold 


I      Still,  mine  own  Orpheus,  sweep  the  golden  lyre 

Ah  !  dost  thou  mark  how  gent'e  Proserpine, 
With  clasp  d  hands,  and  eyes  whose  azure  fire 
G. earns  through  quick  tears,  thrilled  hy  thy  lay 

doth  lean 

Her  graceful  head  upon  her  stern  lord's  hreast, 
Like  an  overwearied  child,  whom  music  lulls  to  rest  ? 

Play,  my  proud  minstrel ;  strike  the  chords  again  ; 

Lo  !  victory  crowns  at  last  thy  heavenly  skill  : 
For  Pluto  turns  relenting  to  the  strain — 

He  waves  his  hand — he  speaks  his  awful  will ; 
My  glorious  Greek,  lead  on;  but  ah  !  still  lend 
Thy  soul  to  thy  sweet  lyre,  lest  yet  thou  lose  thy 
friend. 

Think  not  of  me  :  think  rather  of  the  time, 

When  moved  by  thy  resistless  melody, 
To  the  strange  magic  of  a  song  sublime, 

Thy  argo  grandly  glided  to  the  sea ; 
And  in  the  majesty  Minerva  gave, 
The  graceful  gaLey  swept  with  joy  the  sounding 
wave. 

Or  see,  in  Fancy's  dream,  thy  Thracian  trees, 

Their  proud  heads  bent  submissive  to  the  sound. 
Swayed  by  a  tuneful  and  enchanted  breeze, 

March  to  slow  music  o'er  th'  astonished  ground — 
Grove  after  grove  descending  from  the  hills, 
While  round  thee  weave  their  dance  the  glad,  har 
monious  rills. 

Think  not  of  me.     Ha !  hy  thy  mighty  sire. 

My  lord,  my  king,  recall  the  dread  behest ; 
Turn  not — ah  !  turn  not  hack  those  eyes  of  fire. 

Oh,  lost,  for  ever  lost — undone — unblest — 
I  faint,  I  die !  the  serpent's  fang  once  more 
Is  here  !     Nay,  grieve  not  thus :  life  but  not  love 


LADY  JANE. 

On  !  saw  ye  e'er  creature  so  queenly,  so  fine, 
As  this  dainty,  aerial  darling  of  mine ; 
With  a  toss  of  her  mane  that  is  glossy  as  jet, 
With  a  dance  and  a  prance,  and  a  sportive  curvet, 
She  is  off — she  is  stepping  superbly  away, 
Her  dark,  speaking  eyes  full  of  pride  and  of  play. 
Oh!  she  spurns  the  dull  earth  with  a  graceful  disdain, 
My  fearless,  my  peerless,  my  loved  Lady  Jane. 
Her  silken  ears  lifted  when  danger  is  nigh, 
How  kindles  the  night  in  her  reso'.ute  eye; 
Now  stately  she  paces,  as  if  to  the  sound 
Of  a  proud,  martial  melody  pealing  around — 
Now  pauses  at  once,  mid  a  light  caracole, 
To  turn  on  her  master  a  lo:>k  full  of  soul — 
Now,  fleet  as  a  fairy,  she  speeds  o'er  the  plain, 
My  dashing,  my  darling,  my  own  Lady  Jane. 

Give  her  rein — let  her  go !  like  a  shaft  from  the  bow 
Like  a  bird  on  the  wing  she  is  glancing,  I  trow, 
Light  of  heart,  lithe  of  limb,  with  a  spirit  all  fire, 
Yet  swayed  and  subdued  to  my  idlest  desire ; 
Though  daring,  yet  docile — and  sportive,  but  true, 
Her  nature's  the  noblest  that  ever  I  knew  : 
Oh  !  she  scorns  the  dull  earth,  in  her  joyous  disdain, 
My  beauty,  my  glory,  my  gay  Lady  Jane  ' 


FRANCES   S.    OSGOOB. 


279 


IDA'S  FAREWELL. 

«  WE  part  for  ever  !"     Silent  be  our  parting ; 

Let  not  a  word  its  sacred  grief  profane  ! 
Heart  pressed  to  heart,  with  not  a  tear  upstarting — 

An  age  of  anguish  in  that  moment's  pain  ! 
'T  is  just  and  right.     It  is  our  "  crown  of  sorrow  ;" 

Bravely  we'll  meet  it  as  becomes  our  love — 
A  love  so  strong,  so  pure,  it  well  may  borrow 

Bright  wings  to  waft  it  to  the  joy  above. 
We  part  for  ever ! — o'er  my  soul  in  sadness 

No  more  the  music  of  thy  voice  shall  glide 
Low  with  deep  feeling,  till  a  passionate  gladness 

Thrilled  to  each  tone,  and  in  wild  tears  replied. 
No  more  thy  light  caressing  touch  shall  calm  me, 

With  its  dear  magic  on  my  lifted  brow ; 
No  more  thy  pen  of  lire  shall  pour  to  charm  me, 

The  poet-passion  of  thy  fervent  vow  ! 
We  part  for  ever !     Proud  shall  be  the  story 

Of  hearts  that  hid  affection  fond  as  ours — 
The  joy  that  veiled  the  universe  in  glory 

Fades  with  thy  presence  from  her  skies  and  flowers. 
The  soul  that  answered,  like  the  sun-touched  lyre, 

To  thy  dear  smile — to  every  tone  of  thine, 
Henceforth  is  hushed,  with  all  its  faith— its  fire, 

Till  thou  rewaken  it  in  realms  divine  ! 

We  part  for  ever !     Ah,  this  world's  for  ever — 
What  is  its  fleetness  unto  hearts  so  strong  ] 

Here  in  our  worldless  agony  we  sever  : 
There  we  shall  meet  where  love  will  be  no  wrong. 

"In  paradise !"     Dost  thou  e'er  dream  as  I,  love, 

Of  that  sweet  life  when  all  the  truth — the  grace — 
All  the  soft  melodies,  in  our  souls  that  sigh,  love, 

Shall  make  the  light  and  beauty  of  the  place  1 
We  meet  for  ever  !     Tenderly  lamenting 

The  wild  dear  weakness  of  our  earthly  day, 
Beneath  the  passionate  tears  of  that  repenting, 

What  luminous  flowers  shall  spring  to  bless  our 

way  ! 
And  for  all  tuneful  tones  our  love  revealing, 

Some  bird  or  rill  shall  wake  in  sweet  reply ; 
And  every  sigh  of  pity  or  of  feeling 

Shall  call  a  cloud  of  rose-light  from  the  sky. 

To  thy  rare,  gorgeous  fantasies  responding, 
Rich  palaces,  mid  wondrous  scenes  shall  rise  ; 

To  thy  proud  harp's  impassioned  tones  resounding, 
The  minstrel  wind  shall  play  its  wild  replies. 

Visions  of  unimagined  grace  and  splendor, 
For  ever  changing  round  thy  rapturous  way,  [der, 

Now  beauteous  sculpture  bathed  in  moonlight  ten- 
Now  radiant  paintings  to  thy  wish  shall  play. 

But  I  will  speak  a  fair  bower  into  being, 
With  tender,  timid,  wistful  words  and  low, 

And  tune  my  soul — until,  with  Heaven  agreeing, 
It  chords  with  music  to  which  blossoms  grow. 

And  they — the  flowers,  anJ  I  will  pray  together, 
While  thou,  for"  Love's  sweet  sake,  sha  1  join  the 
prayer, 

Ti  1  all  sweet  influences  of  balmy  weather 
And  lovely  scenery  make  us  good  and  fair. 


And  ever  to  our  purer  aspirationsy 

A  lovelier  light  and  bloom  the- flowers  sha'l  take; 
With  rarer  grace  shall  glow  our  soul's  creations. 

With  mellower  music  every  echo  wake. 

"  We  meet  in  paradise  !"     To  hallowed  duty, 

Here  with  a  loyal  and  heroic  heart, 
Bind  we  our  lives — that  so  divinest  beauty     [part 

May  bless  that  heaven,  where  naught  our  souls  can 


TO  A  DEAR  LITTLE   TRUANT, 

WHO  WOULDN'T   COME   HO.MK. 

WHEX  are  you  coming]  the  flowers  have  come: 
Bees  in  the  balmy  air  happily  hum ; 
In  the  dim  woods  where  the  cool  mosses  are, 
Gleams  the  anemone's  little,  light  star ; 
Tenderly,  timidly,  down  in  the  dell, 
Sighs  the  sweet  violet,  droops  the  harebell ; 
Soil  in  the  wavy  grass  lightens  the  dew ; 
Spring  keeps  her  promises:  why  do  not  you? 
Up  in  the  blue  air  the  clouds  are  at  play — 
You  are  more  graceful  and  lovely  than  they  ; 
Birds  in  the  branches  sing  all  the  day  long, 
When  are  you  coming  to  join  in  their  scng  ] 
Fairer  than  flowers,  and  fresher  than  dew  ! 
Other  sweetenings  are  here — why  are  not  you? 
Why  do  n't  you  come ]  we  have  welcomed  the  rose  \ 
Every  light  zephyr,  as  gayly  it  goes, 
Whispers  of  other  flowers,  met  on  its  way  : 
Why  has  it  nothing  of  you,  love,  to  say  1 
Why  does  it  tell  us  of  music  and  dew  ! 
Rose  of  the  south,  we  are  waiting  for  you. 
Do  not  delay,  darling,  mid  the  dark  trees, 
Like  a  lute  murmurs  the  musical  breeze ; 
Sometimes  the  brook,  as  it  trips  by  the  flowers, 
Hushes  its  warb'e  to  listen  for  yours. 
Pure  as  the  rivulet,  lovely  and  true — 
Spring  should  have  waited  till  she  could  bring  you 

THE  UNEXPECTED  DECLARATION. 

"  AZURE-EYED  Eloise,  beauty  is  thine, 
Passion  kneels  to  thee,  and  calls  thee  divine ; 
Minstrels  awaken  the  lute  with  thy  name ; 
Poets  have  gladdened  the  world  with  thy  fame 
Painters,  half  holy,  thy  loved  image  keep  , 
Beautiful  Eloise,  why  do  you  weep]" 
Still  bows  the  lady  her  light  tresses  low — 
Fast  the  warm  tears  from  her  veiled  eyes  flow. 
"  Sunny-haired  Eloise,  wealth  is  tnine  own ; 
Rich  is  thy  silken  robe — bright  is  thy  zone ; 
Proudly  the  jewel  illumines  thy  way ; 
Clear  rubies  rival  thy  ruddy  lip's  play ; 
Diamonds  like  stardrops  thy  si  ken  braids  deck ; 
Pearls  waste  their  snow  on  thy  lovelier  neck; 
Luxury  softens  thy  pillow  for  slccj.  ; 
Angels  watch  over  it :  why  do  you  weep  !" 
Bows  the  fair  lady  her  light  tresses  low — 
Faster  the  tears  from  her  veiled  eyes  flow 
"  Gifted  and  worshipped  one,  genius  and  gr;ic*« 
Play  in  each  motion,  and  *>eam  in  thy  face: 
When  from  thy  rosy  lip  rises  the  song, 
Hearts  that  adore  thee  the  echo  prolong ; 


2SO 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 


Ne'er  in  the  festival  shone  an  eye  brighter, 
Ne'er  in  the  mazy  dance  fell  a  foot  lighter. 
One  only  spirit  thou'st  failed  to  bring  down  • 
Exquisite  Eloise,  why  do  you  frown  ]" 
Swift  o'er  her  forehead  a  dark  shadow  stole, 
Sent  from  the  tempest  of  pride  in  her  soul. 

'  Touched  by  thy  sweetness,  in  love  with  thy  grace, 
Charmed  by  the  magic  of  mind  in  thy  face, 
Bi-witched  by  thy  beauty,  e'en  his  haughty  strength, 
The  strength  of  the  stoic,  is  conquered  at  length : 
Lo  !   at  thy  feet — see  him  kneeling  the  while — 
Eioise,  Eloise,  why  do  you  smi.e  1" 
The  hand  was  withdrawn  from  her  happy  blue  eyes, 
She  gazed  en  her  lover  with  laughing  surprise ; 
While  the  dimple  and  blush,  stealing  soft  to  her 

cheek, 
Told  the  tale  that  her  tongue  was  too  timid  to  speak. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

BELIEVE  me,  'tis  no  pang  of  jealous  pride 
That  brings  these  tears  I  know  not  how  to  hide ; 
I  only  grieve  because — because — I  see 
Thou  lind'st  not  all  thy  heart  demands  in  me. 

I  only  grieve  that  others,  who  care  less 
For  thy  dear  love,  thy  lightest  wish  may  bless ; 
Tnat  while  to  them  thou'rt  nothing — all  to  me — 
They  may  a  moment  minister  to  thee  ! 

Ah  !  if  a  fairy's  magic  might  were  mine, 

I  'd  joy  to  change  with  each  new  wish  of  thine ; 

Nothing  to  all  the  world  beside  I'd  be, 

And  everything  thou  lovest,  in  turn  to  thee ! 

Pliant  as  clouds,  that  haunt  the  sun-god  still, 
['d  catch  each  ray  of  thy  prismatic  will; 
I  'd  be  a  flower — a  wild,  sweet  flower  I  'd  be — 
And  sigh  my  verv  life  away  for  thee ! 

I'd  be  a  ge:n,  and  drink  light  from  the  sun, 
To  glad  thee  with,  if  gems  thy  fancy  won ; 
Were  birds  thy  joy,  I'd  light  with  docile  glee 
Upon  thy  hand,  and  shut  my  wings  for  thee ! 

Could  a  wild  wave  thy  glance  of  pleasure  meet, 
I'd  lay  my  crown  of  spray-prarls  at  thy  feet; 
Or  could  a  star  delight  thy  heart,  I'd  be 
The  happiest  star  that  ever  looked  on  thee ! 

If  music  lured  thy  spirit,  I  would  take 
A  tune's  a 'rial  beauty  for  thy  sake; 
And  float  into  thy  soul,  so  I  could  see 
How  to  become  all  melody  to  thee. 

The  weed,  that  by  the  garden  blossom  grows, 
Would,  if  it  could,  be  glorious  as  the  rose : 
It  tries  to  bloom — its  soul  to  light  aspires  ; 
The  love  of  beauty  every  fibre  fires. 

And  I   -no  luminous  c'oud  floats  by  above, 
But  wins  at  once  my  envy  and  my  love — 
So  passionately  wild  this  thirst  in  me, 
Tc  be  a' I  beauty  and  all  grace  to  thee ! 
A'as!   I  am  but  woman,  fond  and  weak, 
Without  even  power  my  proud,  pure  love  to  speak  ; 
But  oh  !   by  all  I  fail  in,  love  n  >t  me 
For  what  i  am,  but  what  I  wish  to  be  ! 


THE  FLOWER  LOVE-LETTER. 

B'.USHIXG  and  smiling!  do  ye  so, 
Delicious  flowers,  because  you  know 
To  whose  dear  heart  you  soon  shall  go  ? 
Ah,  give  my  message  well  and  true, 
And  such  a  smile  shall  guerdon  you ! 
His  smile  within  whose  luminous  glow, 
As  in  the  sun,  you  ought  to  grow  ! 

Rose  !  tell  him — what  /dared  not  tell, 
When  last  we  met — how  wildly  well 
I  love  him — how  my  glad  heart  glows, 
Recalling  every  word  he  spake, 
(Remember  that,  thou  radiant  Rose  !) 
In  that  sweet  bower  beside  the  lake. 

Be  sure  you  blush  and  speak  full  low, 
Else  you'll  seem  over  bo'd  I  trow; 
Then  hide  you  thus,  with  winsome  grace, 
Behind  those  leaves — your  glowing  face  ; 
But  through  them  send  a  perfumed  sigh, 
That  to  his  very  heart  sha  1  fly. 

And  thou,  my  fragrant  Lotos-flower, 
\Vith  balmy  whisper  seek  his  bower, 
And  say,  "  Zuleika  sends  in  me 
A  spirit  kiss — a  seal — to  bind 
Thy  favored  lips  to  secrecy ; 
Oh,  hide  the  heart  she  has  resigned, 
Nor  let  the  world,  with  jibe  or  scorn, 
Cloud  her  young  Love's  effu'gent  morn." 

Then,  Lily,  shrink  in  silence  meek, 
And  let  my  glorious  Tulip  speak  ! 
And  speak  thou,  bright  one,  brave  and  bold, 
Lest  my  Rose  show  me  over  weak ; 
W'ith  stately  grace  around  thee  fold 
Thy  royal  robe  of  g' earning  gold, 
And  tell  him  I,  the  Emir's  child — 
With  frame  so  slight,  and  heart  so  wild, 
Still  treasure,  'neath  this  gemmed  cymar, 
Proud  honor's  gem — a  stainless  star, 
And  pure  as  Heaven,  his  soul  must  be, 
And  true  as  Truth,  who'd  mate  with  me. 

And  if  he  answer — as  he  will — 
My  faith  on  that — "  I  seek  her  still," 
Then  do  thou  ring,  my  blue-bell  flower, 
Thy  joyous  peal,  and  softly  say, 
"  Oh,  wreathe  with  bridal  bloom  the  bower ! 
For  by  to-morrow's  earliest  ray, 
From  tyrant's  cage — a  bird  set  free, 
Zuleika  flies — and  flies  to  thee  !" 

But  if  you  mark,  in  those  proud  eyes, 
A  shade — the  least — of  scorn  arise, 
Or  even  doubt,  the  faintest  hue — • 
Ah,  Heaven  !  you  will  not ! — if  you  do, 
Shrink,  wither,  perish,  in  his  sight, 
And  murmur,  ere  you  perish  quite, 
"  'T  is  we — the  flower-sylphs — here  we  dwell, 
Each  in  her  own  light  painted  cell — 
'Tis  we  who  made  this  idle  tale  ! 
At  us — at  us — oh,  false  one,  rail  ! 
The  Emir's  child  would  rather  die, 
Than  breathe  for  thee — one  burning  sigh ; 
She  scorns  thy  suit  and  bids  us  say, 
The  eaglet  holds,  alone,  her  way"- 
Then  wither,  perish  in  his  suht, 
And  leave  me  to  my  starless  night ! 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 


281 


A  WEED. 

WHKX  from  our  northern  woods  pale  sum  mer,fly  ing, 

Breathes  her  lastfragrant  sigh — her  low  farewell — 
While  her  sad  wild  flowers'  dewy  eyes,  in  dying, 

Plead  for  her  stay,  in  every  nook  and  dell, 
A  heart,  that  loved  too  tenderly  and  truly, 

Will  break  at  last — and  in  some  dim,  sweet  shade, 
They'  11  smooth  the  sod  o'er  her  you  prized  unduly, 

And  leave  her  to  the  rest  for  which  she  prayed. 
Ah !  trustfully,  not  mournfully,  they  '11  leave  her, 

Assured  that  deep  repose  is  welcomed  well ; 
The  pure,  glad  breeze  can  whisper  naught  to  grieve 
her, 

The  brook's  low  voice  no  wrongful  tale  can  tell. 

They'll  hide  her  where  no  false  one's  footstep,  steal 
ing, 

Can  mar  the  chastened  meekness  of  her  sleep ; 
t)nly  to  Love  and  Grief  her  grave  revea  ing, 

And  they  will  hush  their  chiding- then — to  weep ! 
And  some — for  though  too  oft  she  erred,  too  blindly, 

She  was  beloved,  how  fondly  and  how  well ! — 
Some  few,  with  faltering  feet,  will  linger  kindly, 

And  plant  dear  flowers  within  that  silent  dell. 
I  know  whose  fragile  hand  will  bring  the  bloom 

Best  loved  by  both — the  violet — to  that  bower ; 
And  one  will  bid  white  lilies  bless  the  gloom ; 

And  one,  perchance,  will  plant  the  passion-flower ! 
Then  do  thou  come,  when  all  the  rest  have  parted — 

Thou,  who  alone  dost  know  her  soul's  deep  gloom, 
And  wreathe  above  the  lost,  the  broken-hearted, 

Some  idle  weed — that  knew  not  how  to  bloom. 


TO  SLEEP. 

E  to  me,  angel  of  the  weary  hearted, 
Since  they  my  loved  ones,  breathed  upon  by  thee, 
Unto  thy  realms  unreal  have  departed, 
I,  too,  may  rest — even  I :  ah  !  haste  to  me. 

I  dare  not  bid  thy  darker,  colder  brother 

With  his  more  welcome  offering  appear, 
For  those  sweet  li ps,  at  m orn,wil  1  m urmur,'  Mother,' 

And  who  shall  soothe  them  if  I  be  not  near. 
Bring  me  no  dream,  dear  Sleep,  though  visions 
glowing 

With  hues  of  heaven  thy  wand  enchanted  shows ; 
I  ask  no  glorious  boon  of  thy  bestowing, 

Save  that  most  true,  most  beautiful — repose. 

I  have  no  heart  to  rove  in  realms  of  Faery — 

To  folow  Fancy  at  her  elfin  call : 
I  am  too  wretched — too  soul-worn  and  weary  ; 

Give  me  but  rest,  for  rest  to  me  is  all. 

Paint  not  the  future  to  my  fainting  spirit, 
Though  it  were  starred  with  glory  like  the  skies; 

There  is  no  gift  immortals  may  inherit, 
That  could  rekindle  hope  in  these  cold  eyes. 

And  for  the  Past— the  fearful  Past— ah !  never 
Be  Memory's  downcast  gaze  unveiled  by  thee : 

Wou'd  thou  couldst  bring  oblivion  for  ever 
Of  all  that  is,  that  has  been,  and  will  be  ! 


SILENT  LOVE. 

AH  !  let  our  love  be  still  a  folded  flower, 
A  pure,  moss  rosebud,  blushing  to  be  seen, 

Hoarding  its  balm  and  beauty  for  that  hour 
When  souls  may  meet  without  the  clay  between ! 

Let  not  a  breath  of  passion  dare  to  blow 
Its  tender,  timid,  clinging  leaves  apart; 

Let  not  the  sunbeam,  with  too  ardent  glow, 
Profane  the  dewy  freshness  at  its  heart ! 

Ah  !  keep  it  folded  like  a  sacred  thing —     [nurse; 

With  tears  and  smiles  its  bloom  and  fragrance 
Still  let  the  modest  veil  around  it  cling, 

Nor  with  rude  touch  its  pleading  sweetness  curse. 

Be  thou  content,  as  I,  to  know,  not  see, 
The  glowing  life,  the  treasured  wealth  within — 

To  feel  our  spirit  flower  still  fresh  and  free, 
And  guard  its  blush,  its  smile,  from  shame  and  sin ! 

Ah,  keep  it  holy  !  once  the  veil  withdrawn — 
Once  the  rose  blooms — its  balmy  soul  will  fly, 

As  fled  of  old  in  sadness,  yet  in  scorn, 
Th'  awakened  god  from  Psyche's  daring  eye . 


BEAUTY'S  PRAYER. 

ROUND  great  Jove  his  lightnings  shone, 
Rolled  the  universe  before  him, 

Stars,  for  gems,  lit  up  his  throne, 

Clouds,  for  banners,  floated  o'er  him. 

With  her  tresses  all  untied, 

Touched  with  gleams  of  golden  glory, 
Beauty  came,  and  blushed,  and  sighed, 

While  she  told  her  piteous  story. 

"  Hear  !  oh,  Jupiter  !  thy  child  : 

Right  my  wrong,  if  thou  dost  love  me ! 

Beast  and  bird,  and  savage  wild, 
All  are  placed  in  power  above  me. 

"  Each  his  weapon  thou  hast  given, 

Each  the  strength  and  skill  to  wield  it  : 

Why  bestow — Supreme  in  heaven  ! 
Bloom  on  me  with  naught  to  shield  it  1 

"Even  the  rose — the  wild-wood  rose, 
Fair  and  frail  as  I,  thy  daughter, 

Safely  yields  to  soft  repose, 

With  her  lifeguard  thorns  about  her." 

As  she  spake  in  music  wild, 

Tears  within  her  blue  eyes  glistened, 
Yet  her  red  lip  dimpling  smiled, 

For  the  god  benignly  listened. 

•'  Child  of  Heaven  !"  he  kindly  said, 
"  Try  the  weapons  Nature  gave  thee  i 

And  if  danger  near  thee  tread, 

Proudly  trust  to  them  to  save  thee. 

"  Lance  and  talon,  thorn  and  spear : 
Thou  art  armed  with  triple  power, 

In  that  blush,  and  smile,  and  tear! 
Fearless  go,  my  fragile  flower. 

"  Yet  dost  thou,  with  all  thy  charmts, 
Still  for  something  more  beseech  mo  7- 

Skill  to  use  thy  magic  arms  ? 

Ask  of  Love — and  Love  wul  teach  thee J 


292 


FRANCES    S.  OSGOOD. 


DREAM-MUSIC,  OR  THE  SPIRIT-FLUTE. 

TnfcRE,  pearl  of  beauty  !   lightly  press, 
With  yielding  form,  the  yielding  sand; 

And  whi  e  you  sift  the  rosy  shells 
Within  your  dear  and  dainty  hand, 

Or  toss  them  to  the  heedless  waves, 

That  reck  not  how  your  treasures  shine, 

As  oft  you  waste  on  careless  hearts 

Your  fancies,  touched  with  light  divine  — 

I'll  sing  a  lay,  more  wild  than  gay — 

The  story  of  a  magic  flute  : 
And  as  I  sing,  the  waves  shall  play 

An  ordered  tune,  the  song  to  suit. 

In  silence  flowed  our  grand  old  Rhine — 
For  on  his  breast  a  picture  burned, 

The  loveliest  of  all  scenes  that  shine, 
Where'er  his  glorious  course  has  turned. 

That  radiant  morn  the  peasants  saw 

A  wondrous  vision  rise  in  light, 
They  gazed,  with  blended  joy  and  awe — 

A  castle  crowned  the  beetling  height. 

Far  up  amid  the  amber  mist, 

That  softly  wreathes  each  mountain-spire, 
The  sky  its  clustered  columns  kissed, 

And  touched  their  snow  with  golden  fire : 

The  vapor  parts — against  the  skies, 

In  delicate  tracery  on  the  blue,- 
Those  graceful  turrets  lightly  rise, 

As  if  to  music  there  they  grew  ! 

And  issuing  from  its  portal  fair, 

A  youth  descends  the  dizzy  steeps ; 
The  sunrise  gilds  his  waving  hair, 

From  rock  to  rock  he  lightly  leaps  : 
He  comes — the  radiant  angel  boy ! 

He  moves  with  more  than  human  grace; 
His  eyes  are  filled  with  earnest  joy, 

And  heaven  is  in  his  beauteous  face. 

And  whether  bred  the  stars  among, 

Or  in  that  luminous  palace  born, 
Around  his  airy  footsteps  hung 

The  light  of  an  immortal  morn. 
From  steep  to  steep  he  fearless  springs, 

And  now  he  glides  the  throng  amid, 
So  light,  as  if  still  played  the  wings 

That  'neath  his  tunic  sure  are  hid. 
A  fairy  flute  is  in  his  hand — 

He  parts  his  bright,  disordered  hair, 
And  smiles  upon  the  wondering  band — 

A  strange,  sweet  smile,  with  tranquil  air. 
Anon,  his  blue,  celestial  eyes 

He  bent  upon  a  youthful  maid, 
Whose  looks  met  his  in  still  surprise, 

The  while  a  low,  glad  tune  he  played. 
Her  heart  beat  wildly — in  her  face 

The  lovely  rose-light  went  and  came ; 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  timid  grace, 

In  mute  appeal,  in  joy  and  shame. 
Then  slow  he  turned — more  wildly  breathed 

The  pleading  flute,  and  by  the  sound 


Through  all  the  throng  her  steps  she  wreathed, 
As.  if  a  chain  were  o'er  her  wound. 

All  mute  and  still  the  group  remained, 
Arid  watched  the  chann,  with  lips  apart. 

While  in  those  linked  nuies  enchained, 
The  girl  was  led,  with  listening  heart. 

The  youth  ascends  the  rocks  again, 
And  in  his  steps  the  maiden  stole, 

While  softer,  ho'ier  grew  the  strain, 
Till  rapture  thrilled  her  yearning  soul ! 

And  fainter  fe'l  that  fairy  tune; 

Its  low,  melodious  cadence  wound, 
Most  like  a  rippling  rill  at  noon, 

Through  delicate  lights  and  shades  of  sound: 

And  with  the  music,  gliding  slow, 

Far  up  the  steep  their  garments  gleam ; 

Now  through  the  palace-gate  they  go, 
And  now — it  vanished  like  a  dream  ! 

Still  frowns  above  thy  waves,  oh  Rhine ! 

The  mountain's  wild  terrific  height, 
But  where  has  fled  the  work  divine 

That  lent  its  brow  a  halo  light  1 

Ah  !  springing  arch  and  pillar  pale 

Had  melted  in  the  azure  air; 
And  she — the  darling  of  the  dale — 

She  too  had  gone — but  how,  and  where  1 ..... 

Long  years  rolled  by,  and  lo !  one  morn, 
Again  o'er  regal  Rhine  it  came — 

That  picture  from  the  dream-land  borne, 
That  palace  built  of  frost  and  flame. 

Beho'd  !  within  its  portal  gleams 

A  heavenly  shape — oh,  rapturous  sight ! 

For  lovely  as  the  light  of  dreamy 

She  g.ides  adown  the  mountain  height ! 

She  comes — the  loved,  the  long-lost  maid  ! 

And  in  her  hand  the  charm  d  flute; 
But  ere  its  mystic  tune  was  played, 

She  spake — the  peasants  listened  mute : 

She  told  how  in  that  instrument 

Was  chained  a  world  of  winged  dreams; 

And  how  the  notes  that  from  it  went 

Revealed  them  as  with  lightning  gleams — 

And  how  its  music's  magic  braid 

O'er  the  unwary  heart  it  threw, 
Till  he  or  she  whose  dream  it  played 

Was  forced  to  follow  where  it  drew. 
She  to'd  how  on  that  marvellous  day 

Within  its  changing  tune  she  heard 
A  forest  fountain's  plaintive  play, 

A  silver  trill  from  far-off  bird — 

And  how  the  sweet  tones,  in  her  heart, 

Had  changed  to  promises  as  sweet, 
That  if  she  dared  with  them  depart, 

Each  lovely  hope  its  heaven  should  meet. 
And  then  she  played  a  joyous  lay, 

And  to  her  side  a  fair  child  springs, 
And  wildly  cries,  "  Oh,  where  are  they, 

Those  singing  birds,  with  diamond  wings'?** 
Anon  a  loftier  strain  is  heard — 

A  princely  youth  beholds  his  dream, 


FRANCES   S.  OSGOOD. 


And,  by  the  thrilling  cadence  stirred, 
Would  follow  where  its  wonders  gleam. 

Still  played  the  maid — and  from  the  throng, 

Receding  slow,  the  music  drew 
A  choice  and  lovely  band  along — 

The  brave,  the  beautiful,  the  true  ! 

The  sordid,  worldly,  cold,  remained, 
To  watch  that  radiant  troop  ascend — 

To  hear  the  fading  fairy  strain — 

To  see  with  heaven  the  vision  blend  ! 

And  ne'er  again,  o'er  glorious  Rhine, 

That  sculptured  dream  rose  calm  and  mute  ; 

Ah,  would  that  now  once  more  'twould  shine, 
And  I  could  play  the  fairy  flute  ! 

I'd  play,  Marie,  the  dream  I  see, 

Deep  in  those  changeful  eyes  of  thine, 

And  thou  perforce  shouldst  follow  me 
Up — up  where  life  is  all  divine  ! 


TO  MY  PEN. 

DOST  know,  my  iittle  vagrant  pen, 

That  wanderest  lightly  down  the  paper, 

Without  a  thought  how  critic  men 
May  carp  at  every  careless  caper  1 

Dost  know,  twice  twenty  thousand  eyes, 

If  publishers  report  them  tru'y, 
Each  month  may  mark  the  sportive  lies 

That  track,  oh  shame  !  thy  steps  unruly  1 
Now  list  to  me,  my  fairy  pen, 

And  con  the  lessons  gravely  over ; 
Be  never  wild  or  false  again, 

But  "  mind  your  Ps  and  Qs,"  you  rover ! 
While  tripping  gayly  to  and  fro. 

Let  not  a  thought  escape  you  lightly, 
But  challenge  all  before  they  go, 

And  see  them  fairly  robed  and  rightly. 

You  know  that  words  but  dress  the  frame, 

And  thought's  the  soul  of  verse,  my  fairy  ! 
So  drape  not  spirits  dull  and  tame 

In  gorgeous  robes  or  garments  airy. 
[  would  not  have  my  pen  pursue 

The  "  beaten  track" — a  slave  for  ever ; 
No  !  roam  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do, 

In  author-land,  by  rock  and  river. 
Be  like  the  sunbeam's  burning  wing, 

Be  like  the  wand  in  Cinderella — 
And  if  you  touch  a  common  thing, 

Ah,  change  to  gold  the  pumpkin  yellow  ! 
May  grace  come  fluttering  round  your  steps, 

WThene'er,  my  bird,  you  light  on  paper, 
And  music  murmur  at  your  lips, 

And  truth  restrain  each  truant  caper. 
Let  hope  paint  pictures  in  your  way, 

And  love  his  seraph-lesson  teach  you ; 
And  rather  calm  with  reason  stray, 

Than  dance  with  folly — I  beseech  you ! 
fn  Faith's  pure  fountain  lave  your  wing, 

And  quaff  from  feeling's  glowing  chalice 


But  touch  not  falsehood's  fatal  spring, 
And  shun  the  poisoned  weeds  of  malice. 

Firm  be  the  web  you  lightly  spin, 

From  leaf  to  leaf,  though  frail  in  seeming, 

While  Fancy's  fairy  dew-gems  win 

The  sunbeam  Truth  to  keep  them  gleaming, 

And  shrink  not  thou  when  tyrant  wrong 
O'er  humble  suffering  dares  deride  thee : 

With  lightning  step  and  c'arion  song, 

Go  !  take  the  field,  with  Heaven  beside  thee. 

Be  tuned  to  tenderest  music  when 

Of  sin  and  shame  thou'rt  sadly  singing; 

But  diamond  be  thy  point,  my  pen, 

When  folly's  bells  are  round  thee  ringing ! 

And  so,  where'er  you  stay  your  flight, 

To  plume  your  wing  or  dance  your  measure, 

May  gems  and  flowers  your  pathway  light, 
For  those  who  track  your  tread,  my  treasure  ! 

But  what  is  this  1  you've  tripped  about, 
While  I  the  mentor  grave  was  playing; 

And  here  you've  written  boldly  out 
The  very  words  that  I  was  saying  ! 

And  here,  as  usual,  on  you've  flown 

From  right  to  left — flown  fast  and  faster, 

Till  even  while  you  wrote  it  down, 

You've  missed  the  task  you  ought  to  master, 

NEW   ENGLAND'S  MOUNTAIN  CHILD. 

WHEUK  foams  the  fall — a  tameless  storm — 

Through  Nature's  wild  and  rich  arcade, 
Which  forest  trees,  entwining,  form, 

There  trips  the  mountain  maid. 
She  binds  not  her  luxuriant  hair 

With  dazz'ing  gem  or  costly  plume, 
But  gayly  wreathes  a  rosebud  there, 

To  match  her  maiden  bloom. 

She  clasps  no  golden  zone  of  pride 

Her  fair  and  simple  robe  around; 
By  flowing  riband,  lightly  tied, 

Its  graceful  folds  are  bound. 
And  thus  attired— a  sportive  thing, 

Pure,  loving,  guileless,  bright,  and  wild- 
Proud  Fashion  !   match  me  in  your  ring, 

New  England's  mountain  child  ! 
She  scorns  to  se'l  her  rich,  warm  heart 

For  paltry  gold  or  haughty  rank, 
But  gives  her  love,  untaught  by  art, 

Confiding,  free,  and  frank. 
And,  once  bestowed,  no  fortune  change 

That  high  and  generous  faith  can  alter; 
Through  grief  and  pain,  too  pure  to  range, 

She  will  not  fly  or  falter. 
Her  foot  will  bound  as  light  and  free 

In  lowly  hut  as  palace  hall; 
Her  sunny  smile  as  warm  will  be, 

For  love  to  her  is  all. 
Hast  seen  where  in  our  woodland  gloon; 

The  rich  magnolia  proudly  smiled  1 — 
So  brightly  doth  she  bud  and  bloom, 

New  England's  mountain  child  ! 


284 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 


"ASHES  OF  ROSES." 


that  God  would  take  my  child  — 

I  could  not  bear  to  see 
The  look  of  suffering,  str.mge  -ind  wild, 

With  which  she  gazed  on  me  : 
I  prayed  that  God  would  take  her  back, 

But  ah  !   f  did  not  know 
VVli.it  agony  at  last  'twould  be 

To  let  my  darling  go. 

She  fa-led  —  faded  in  my  arms, 

And  with  a  faint,  slow  sigh, 
Her  fair  young  spirit  went  away. 

Ah  God  !  I  felt  her  die  ! 
But  oh  !  so  lightly  to  her  form 

Death's  kindly  angel  came, 
It  only  seemed  a  zephyr  passed 

And  quenched  —  a  taper's  flame; 
A  litt'e  flower  might  so  have  died  — 

So  tranquilly  she  closed 
Her  lovelv  mouth,  and  on  my  breast 

Her  helpless  head  reposed. 

Where'er  I  go,  I  hear  her  low 

And  plaintive  murmur  ring  ; 
I  feel  her  little  fairy  clasp 

Around  my  finger  cling, 
For  oh  !  it  seemed  the  darling  dreamed, 

That  while  she  clung  to  me, 
Safe  from  all  harm  of  Death  or  pain 

She  could  not  help  but  be, 
That  I,  who  watched  in  helpless  grief, 

My  flower  fade  away, 
That  I  —  ah,  Heaven  !  —  had  life  arid  strength 

To  keep  her  from  decay  ! 

She  clung  there  to  the  very  last  — 

I  knew  that  all  was  o'er, 
Only  because  that  dear,  dear  hand, 

Could  press  mine  own  no  more. 
Oh  God  !  give  back,  give  back  my  child  ! 

But  one,  one  hour,  that  I 
May  tell  her  all  my  passionate  love 

Before  I  let  her  die  ! 
Call  not  the  prayer  an  impious  one, 

For  THOU  didst  fill  my  soul 
With  this  fond,  yearning  tenderness, 

That  nothing  can  control  ! 
But  say  instead,  "  Beside  thy  bed 

Thy  child's  sweet  spirit  glides, 
For  pitying  Love  has  heard  the  prayer 

Which  heavenly  wisdom  chides  !" 

I  know,  I  know  that  she  is  blest  : 

But  oh  !  I  pine  to  see 
Once  more  the  pretty,  pleading  smile 

She  used  to  give  to  me  ; 
I  pine  to  hear  that  low,  sweet  trill 

With  which,  where'er  I  came, 
H«r  little,  soft  voice  welcomed  me, 

Half  welcome  and  half  blame  ! 

I  know  her  little  heart  is  glad  — 

Some  gentle  angel  guides 
My  loved  one  on  her  joyous  way, 

VVVjrc'er  in  heaven  she  glides, 


Some  angel  far  more  wisely  kind 

Than  ever  I  could  be, 
With  all  my  blind,  wild  mother-love, 

My  Fanny,  tends  on  thee ; 
And  every  sweet  want  of  thy  heart 

Her  care  benign  fulfils, 
And  every  whispered  wish  for  me, 

W'ith  lulling  love  she  stills. 

Upborne  by  its  own  purity, 

Thy  light  form  floats  away, 
And  heaven's  fair  children  round  it  throng, 

And  woo  thee  to  their  play, 
Where  flowers  of  wondrous  beauty  rise, 

And  birds  of  splendor  rare, 
And  balm  and  bloom  and  melody 

Divinely  fill  the  air. 

I  hush  my  heart,  I  hide  my  teais, 

Lest  he  my  grief  should  guess 
Wlio  watched  thee,  darling,  day  and  night, 

With  patient  tenderness ; 
'T  would  grieve  his  generous  soul  to  see 

This  anguish,  wild  and  vain, 
And  he  would  deem  it  sin  in  me 

To  wish  thee  back  again ; 
But  oh !  when  I  am  all  alone, 

I  can  not  calm  my  grief, 
I  think  of  all  thy  touching  ways 

And  find  a  sweet  relief: 
Thv  dark  blue,  wishful  eyes  look  up 

Once  more  into  my  own, 
Thy  faint  soft  smile  one  moment  plays — 

One  moment  thrills  thy  tone  : 
The  next — the  vision  vanishes, 

And  all  is  still  and  cold ; 
I  see  thy  little,  tender  form — 

Oh  misery  !  in  the  mould  ! 
I  shut  my  eyes,  and  pitying  Heaven 

A  happier  vision  gives, 
Thy  spirit  dawns  upon  rny  dream — 

I  know  my  treasure  lives. 

No,  no,  I  must  not  wish  thee  back, 

But  might  I  go  to  thee  ! 
Were  there  no  other  loved  ones  here 

Who  need  my  love  and  me ; 
I  am  so  weary  of  the  world-  — 

Its  falsehood  and  its  strife — 
So  weary  of  the  wrong  and  ruth 

That  mar  our  human  life  ! 
Where  thou  art.  Fanny,  all  is  love 

And  peace  and  pure  delight ; 
The  soul  that  here  must  hide  its  face, 

There  lives  serene  in  right ; 
And  ever,  in  its  lovely  path, 

Some  new,  great  truth  divine, 
Like  a  clear  star  that  dawns  in  heaven, 

Undyingly  doth  shine. 
My  child,  while  joy  and  wisdom  go 

Through  that  calm  sphere  with  thee, 
Oh,  wilt  thou  not  sometimes  look  back, 

My  pining  heart  to  see  ? 
For  now  a  strange  fear  chills  my  soul — 

A  feeling  like  despair, 
Lest  thou  forget  me  mid  those  scenes — 

Thou  dost  not  need  me  there  ! 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 


285 


Ah,  no :  the  spirit-love,  that  looked 

From  those  dear  eyes  of  thine, 
Was  not  of  earth — it  could  not  die  ! 

Tt  stil!  responds  to  mine  ! 
And  it  may  be — (how  thrills  the  hope 

Through  all  my  soul  again  !) — 
That  I  may  tend  my  chid  in  heaven, 

Since  here  my  watch  was  vain  ! 


•'YKS!  LOWER  TO  THE   LEVEL. 

YES  !  "  lower  to  the  level" 

Of  those  who  laud  thee  now; 
Go,  join  the  joyous  revel, 

And  pledge  the  heartless  vow ; 
Go,  dim  the  soulhorn  beauty 

That  lights  that  lofty  brow ; 
Fil',  fill  the  bowl :   let  burning  wine 
Drown,  in  thy  soul,  Love's  dream  divine. 

Yet  when  the  laugh  is  lightest, 
When  wildest  goes  the  jest, 
When  gleams  the  goblet  brightest, 
And  proudest  heaves  thy  breast, 
And  thou  art  madly  pledging 

Each  gay  and  jovial  guest — 
A  ghost  shall  glide  amid  the  flowers — 
The  shade  of  Love's  departed  hours. 
And  thou  sha'.t  shrink  in  sadness 

From  all  the  splendor  there, 
And  curse  the  revel's  gladness, 

And  hate  the  banquet's  glare, 
And  pine,  mid  Passion's  madness, 

For  true  Love's  purer  air, 
And  feel  thou  'dst  give  their  wildest  glee 
For  one  unsul'ied  sigh  from  me ! 

Yet  deem  not  this  my  prayer,  love : 

Ah  !  no  ;  if  I  could  keep 
Thy  altered  heart  from  care,  love, 

And  charm  its  grief  to  sleep, 
Mine  only  should  despair,  love, 

I — I  alone  would  weep  ! 
I — I  alone  wou'd  mourn  the  flowers 
That  fade  in  Love's  deserted  bowers  ! 


THE  SOUL'S  LAMENT  FOR  HOME. 

As  'plains  the  homesick  ocean-shell 

Far  from  its  own  remembered  sea, 
Repeating,  like  a  fairy  spell 

Of  love,  the  charm  d  melody 
It  learned  within  that  whispering  wave, 

Whose  wondrous  and  mysterious  tone 
Still  wildly  haunts  its  winding  cave 

Of  pearl,  with  softest  music-moan — 
So  asks  my  homesick  soul  below, 

For  something  loved,  yet  undefined  ; 
So  mourns  to  mingle  with  the  flow 

Of  music,  from  the  Eternal  Mind ; 
So  murmurs,  with  its  child-like  sigh, 

The  melody  it  learned  above, 
To  which  no  echo  may  reply, 

Save  from  thy  voice,  Celestial  Love ! 


BIANCA. 

A  WHISPEH  woke  the  air, 

A  soft,  light  tone,  and  low, 

Yet  barbed  with  shame  and  wo. 
Ah  !  mi-rht  it  only  perish  there, 

Nor  farther  go ! 
But  no  !  a  quick  and  eager  ear 

Caught  up  the  little,  meaning  sound — 
Another  voice  has  breathed  it  clear-  — 

And  so  it  wandered  round 
From  ear  to  lip,  from  lip  to  ear, 
Until  it  reached  a  gentle  heart 
That  throbbed  from  all  the  world  apart, 

And  that — it  broke  ! 
It  was  the  only  heart  it  found — 
The  only  heart  'twas  meant  to  find, 

When  first  its  accents  woke. 
It  reached  that  gentle  heart  at  last, 

And  that — it  broke  ! 
Low  as  it  seemed  to  other  ears, 
It  came  a  thunder-crash  to  hers — • 
That  fragile  girl,  so  fair  and  gay. 
'Tis  said,  a  lovely  humming-bird, 
That  dreaming  in  a  lily  lay, 
Was  ki.led  but  by  the  gun's  report 
Some  idle  boy  had  fired  in  sport ; 
So  exquisitely  frail  its  frame, 
The  very  sound  a  death-blow  came : 
And  thus  her  heart,  unused  to  shame, 

Shrined  in  its  li;y,  too — 

(For  who  the  maid  that  knew, 
But  owned  the  delicate,  flower-like  grace 
Of  her  young  form  and  face  ]) 
Her  light  and  happy  heart,  that  beat 
With  love  and  hope  so  fast  and  sweet, 
When  first  that  cruel  word  it  heard, 
It  fluttered  like  a  frightened  bird — 
Then  shut  its  wings  and  sighed, 
And  with  a  silent  shudder  died  ! 


MUSIC. 

THE  Father  spake  !     In  grand  reverberations 
Through  space  rolled  on  the  mighty  music-tide, 

While  to  its  low,  majestic  modulations, 
The  clouds  of  chaos  slowly  swept  aside. 

The  Father  spake — a  dream,  that  had  been  lying 
Hushed  from  eternity  in  silence  there, 

Heard  the  pure  melody  and  low  replying, 
Grew  to  that  music  in  the  wondering  an- 

Grew  to  that  music — slowly,  grandly  waking, 
Till  bathed  in  beauty — it  became  a  world  ! 

Led  by  his  voice,  its  spheric  pathway  taking, 
While  glorious  clouds  their  wings  around  it  furled. 

Nor  yet  has  ceased  that  sound — his  love  revealing 
Though,  in  response,  a  universe  moves  by  ! 

Throughout  eternity,  its  echo  pealing — 
World  after  world  awakes  in  glad  reply  ! 

And  wheresoever,  in  his  rich  creation, 
Sweet  music  breathes — in  wave,  or  bird,  or  soul — • 

'Tis  but  the  faint  and  for  reverberation 
Of  that  great  tune  to  which  the  planets  roll ' 


FRANCES   S.  OSGOOD. 


"SHE  LOVES  HIM  YET." 

SHK  loves  him  yet ! 
I  know  by  the  blush  that  rises 

Beneath  the  curls 
That  shadow  her  soul-lit  cheek  : 

She  loves  him  yet ! 
Through  all  Love's  sweet  disguises 

In  timid  girls, 
A  blush  will  be  sure  to  speak. 

But  deeper  signs 
Than  the  radiant  blush  of  beauty, 

The  maiden  finds, 
Whenever  his  name  is  heard 

Her  young  heart  thrills, 
Forgetting  herself — her  duty  ; 

Her  dark  eye  fills, 
And  her  pulse  with  hope  is  stirred. 

She  loves  him  yet ! 
The  flower  the  false  one  gave  her, 

When  last  he  came, 
Is  still  with  her  wild  tears  wet. 

She'll  nerer  forget, 
Howe'er  his  faith  may  waver, 

Through  grief  and  shame, 
Believe  it- -she  loves  him  yet ! 

His  favorite  songs 
She  will  sing — she  heeds  no  other: 

With  all  her  wrongs 
Her  life  on  his  love  is  set. 

Oh,  doubt  no  more  ! 
She  never  can  wed  another  : 

Till  life  be  o'er, 
She  loves — she  will  love  him  yet ! 


NO! 

IF  the  dew  have  fed  the  flower, 
Shall  she  therefore,  from  that  hour, 
Live  on  nothing  else  but  dew  1 
Ask  no  more,  from  dawn  of  day — 
Never  heed  the  sunny  ray, 
Though  it  come,  a  glittering  fay, 

To  her  bower  ? 

Though  upon  her  soul  it  play, 
Must  she  coldly  turn  away, 
And  refuse  the  life  it  brings, 
Burning  in  its  golden  wings — 
Meekly  lingering  in  the  night, 

To  herself  untrue  ? 
Though  the  humming-bird  have  stole, 
Floating  on  his  plumes  of  glory, 
Softly  to  her  glowing  soul, 
Telling  his  impassioned  story — 
If  the  soaring  lark  she  capture, 
In  diviner  love  and  rapture, 
Pouring  music  wild  and  clear, 
Round  her  till  she  thrills  to  hear — 
Shu'l  she  shut  her  spirit's  ear  1 
Shall  the  lesson  wasted  be, 
Of  that  heavenly  harmony  1 
!Vo  !  by  all  the  inner  bloom, 
That  the  sunbeam  may  illume, 


But  that  else  the  stealing  chill 
Of  the  early  dawn  might  kill : 
No  !  by  all  the  leaves  of  beauty, 
Leaves  that,  in  their  vestal  duty, 
Guard  the  shrined  and  rosy  light 
Hidden  in  her  "heart  of  heart," 
Till  that  music  bids  them  part : 
No  !  by  all  the  perfume  rare, 
Delicate  as  a  fairy's  sigh. 
Shut  within  and  wasting  there, 
That  would  else  enchant  the  air — 
Incense  that  must  soar  or  die  ! 
That  divine,  pure  soul  of  flowers, 
Captive  held,  that  pines  to  fly, 
Asking  for  unfading  bowers, 
Learning  from  the  bird  and  ray 
All  the  lore  they  bring  away 
From  the  skies  in  love  and  play, 
Where  they  linger  every  morn, 
Till  to  this  sad  world  of  ours 
Day  in  golden  pomp  is  borne — 
By  that  soul,  which  else  might  glow 
An  immortal  flower  :  No  ! 


SONG. 

SHOULD  all  who  throng,  with  gift  and  song, 
And  for  my  favor  bend,  the  knee, 

Forsake  the  shrine  they  deem  divine, 
I  would  riot  stoop  my  soul  to  thee  ! 

The  lips,  that  breathe  the  burning  vow, 
By  falsehood  base  unstained  must  be; 

The  heart,  to  which  mine  own  shall  bow, 
Must  worship  Honor  more  than  me. 

The  monarch  of  a  world  wert  thou, 
And  I  a  slave  on  bended  knee, 

Though  tyrant  chains  my  form  might  bow, 
My  soul  should  never  stoop  to  thee  ! 

LTntil  its  hour  shall  come,  my  heart 
I  will  possess,  serene  and  free ; 

Though  snared  to  ruin  by  thine  art, 

'T  would  sooner  break  than  bend  to  thee ! 


"BOIS  TON  SANG,  BEAUMANOIR." 

Fi  ETICE  raged  the  combat — the  foemen  pressed  nigh, 
When  from  young  Beaurnanoir  rose  the  wild  cry, 
Beaumanoir,  mid  them  all,  bravest  and  first — 
"Give  me  to  drink,  for  I  perish  of  thirst!" 
Hark  !   at  his  side.,  in  the  deep  tones  of  ire, 
"  Bois  ton  SAXG,  Beaumanoir!"  shouted  his  sire. 

Deep  had  it  pierced  him — the  foemen's  swift  sword, 
Deeper  his  soul  felt  the  wound  of  that  word  : 
Back  to  the  battle,  with  forehead  all  flushed, 
Stung  to  wild  fury,  the  noble  youth  rushed  ! 
Scorn  in  his  dark  eyes — his  spirit  on  fire — 
Deeds  were  his  answer  that  dav  to  his  sire. 
Still  where  triumphant  the  you  in  hero  came,, 
Glory's  bright  garland  encircled  his  name: 
But  in  her  bower,  to  beautv  a  slave, 
Dearer  the  guerdon  his  lady-love  gave, 
While  on  his  shield,  that  no  shame  had  defaced, 
"  Bois  ton  sang,  Beaumanoir  !"  proudly  she  traced. 


FHANCES   S.   OSGOOD. 


287 


RKPHOVE  me  not  that  still  I  change 

With  every  changing  hour, 
For  glorious  Nature  gives  me  leave 

In  wave,  and  cloud,  and  flower. 

And  you  and  all  the  world  would  do — • 

If  a  1  but  dared — the  same  ; 
True  to  myself — if  false  to  you, 

Why  should  I  reck  your  blame  . 
Then  cease  yojir  carping,  cousiu  mine, 

Your  vain  reproaches  cease  ; 
I  revel  in  my  right  divine — 

I  glory  in  caprice  ! 

Yon  soft,  light  cloud,  at  morning  hour, 
Looked  dark  and  full  of  tears: 

At  noon  it  seemed  a  rosy  flower — 
Now,  gorgeous  gold  appears. 

So  yield  I  to  the  deepening  light 
That  dawns  around  my  way  : 

Because  you  linger  with  the  night, 
Shall  I  my  noon  delay  1 

No !  cease  your  carping,  cousin  mine — 

Your  co'.d  reproaches  cease  ; 
The  chariot  of  the  cloud  be  mine — 

Take  thou  the  reins,  Caprice  ! 

'Tis  true  you  played  on  Feeling's  lyre 

A  pleasant  tune  or  two, 
And  oft  beneath  your  minstrel  fire 

The  hours  in  music  flew ; 

But  when  a  hand  more  skilled  to  sweep 

The  harp,  its  soul  allures, 
Shu  1  it  iu  su  ten  silence  sleep 

Because  not  touched  by  yours  1 
Oh,  there  are  rapturous  tones  in  mine 

That  mutely  pray  re  ease; 
They  wait  the  master-hand  divine — 

So  tune  the  chords,  Caprice  ! 
Go — strive  the  sea-wave  to  control ; 

Or,  wouldst  thou  keep  me  thine, 
Be  thou  all  being  to  my  soul, 

And  fiJ  each  want  divine  : 
Play  every  string  in  Love's  sweet  lyre — 

Set  all  its  music  flowing  ; 
Be  air,  and  dew,  and  light,  and  fire, 

To  keep  the  soul-flower  growing : 
Be  less — thou  art  n  >  love  of  mine, 

So  leave  my  love  in  peace ; 
'Tis  helpless  woman's  right  divine — 

Her  only  right  — caprice  ! 
And  I  wiL  mount  her  opal  car, 

Vnd  draw  the  rainbow  reins, 
And  gayly  go  from  star  to  star, 

Till  not  a  ray  remains ; 
And  we  will  find  all  fairy  flowers 

That  are  to  morta's  given, 
And  wreathe  the  radiant,  changing  hours, 

With  those  "  sweet  hints"  of  heaven. 
Her  humming-birds  are  harness*  I  there — 

Oh  !   leave  their  wings  in  peace  ; 
Like  "  flying  gems"  they  "lance  in  air — 

We'll  chase  the  light,  Caprice  ! 


SONG. 

I  IOVED  an  ideal — I  sought  it  in  thee; 
I  found  it  unreal  as  stars  in  the  sea. 

And  shall  I,  disdaining  an  instinct  divine — 

By  falsehood  profaning  that  pure  hope  of  mine — 

Shall  I  stoop  from  my  vision  so  lofty,  so  true — 
From  the  light  al.  Eiysian  that  round  me  it  threw  1 

Oh !  guilt  unforgiven,  if  false  I  could  be 

To  myself  and  to  Heaven,  while  constant  to  tliee 

Ah  no !  though  all  lonely  on  earth  be  my  lot, 
I  '11  brave  it,  if  only  that  trust  fail  rne  not — 

The  trust  that,  in  keeping  all  pure  from  control 
The  love  that  lies  sleeping  and  dreams  in  my  soul, 

It  may  wake  in  some  better  and  holier  sphere,' 
Unbound  by  the  fetter  Fate  hung  on  it  here. 


ASPIRATIONS. 

I  WASTE  no  more  in  idle  dreams 

My  life,  my  soul  away  ; 
I  wake  to  know  my  better  self — 

I  wake  to  watch  and  pray. 
Thought,  feeling,  time,  on  idols  vain, 

I've  lavished  all  too  long: 
Henceforth  to  holier  purposes 

I  pledge  myself,  my  song  ! 

Oh  !  still  within  the  inner  veil, 

Upon  the  spirit's  shrine, 
Still  unprofaned  by  evil,  burns 

The  one  pure  spark  divine, 
Which  God  has  kindled  in  us  all, 

And  be  it  mine  to  tend 
Henceforth,  with  vestal  thought  and  care, 

The  light  that  lamp  may  lend. 

I  shut  mine  eyes  in  grief  and  shame 

Upon  the  dreary  past  — 
My  heart,  my  soul  poured  recklessly 

On  dreams  that  could  not  last : 
My  bark  was  drifted  down  the  stream, 

At  will  of  wind  or  wave — 
An  idle,  light,  and  fragile  thing, 

That  few  had  cared  to  save. 

Henceforth  the  tiller  Truth  shall  hold, 

And  steer  as  Conscience  tells, 
And  I  will  brave  the  storms  of  Fate, 

Though  wild  the  ocpan  swells. 
I  know  my  sou!  is  strong  and  high, 

If  once  I  give  it  sway  ; 
I  feel  a  glorious  power  within, 

Though  light  I  seem  and  gay. 

Oh,  laggard  Soul !  unclose  thine  eyes* 

No  more  in  luxury  soft 
Of  joy  ideal  waste  thyself: 

Awake,  and  soar  aloft ! 
Unfurl  this  hour  thase  falcon  wings 

Which  thou  dost  fold  too  long; 
Raise  to  the  skies  thy  lightning  gaze. 

And  sing  thy  loftiest  song  ? 


LUCY   HOOPER 

(Born  181&-Died  1841). 


THFRE  have  been  in  our  literary  history 
few  more  interesting  characters  than  LUCY 
HOOIM:R.  She  died  at  an  early  age,  but  not 
until  her  acquaintances  had  seen  developed 
in  her  a  nature  that  was  all  truth  and  gentle 
ness,  nor  until  the  Avorid  had  recognised  in 
her  writings  the  signs  of  a  rare  and  delicate 
genius,  that  wrought  in  modesty,  but  in  re 
pose,  in  the  garden  of  the  affections  and  in 
ihe  light  of  religion. 

She  was  born  in  Newburyport,  in  Massa 
chusetts,  on  the  fourth  of  February,  1816, 
and  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Joseph  Hooper, 
a  respectable  merchant,  who  saw  with  anx 
ious  pride  the  unfolding  of  her  abilities,  and 
attended  sedulously  and  judiciously  to  their 
cultivation.  After  his  death,  and  when  Miss 
Hooper  was  in  her  fifteenth  year,  the  survi 
ving  members  of  the  family  removed  to  Brook 
lyn,  on  Long  Island  ;  and  in  this  city  she 
passed  the  remainder  of  her  life.  Her  health, 
from  childhood,  war,  precarious,  and  it  is  pos 
sible  that  the  ever-fatal  disease  of  which  she 
died  had  already  affected  her  physical  ener 
gies,  while  it  quickened  her  intellectual  fac 
ulties  and  made  them  accessaries  to  her  de 
cay.  Her  rnind  was  delicately  susceptible  of 
impressions  of  beauty,  and  she  delighted  most 
in  nature,  particularly  in  flowers,  the  study 
and  cultivation  of  which  were  among  her 
dearest  pleasures. 

Her  first  poems  that  were  published  ap 
peared  in  The  Long  Island  Star,  a  Brooklyn 
journal,  under  the  signature  of  her  initials. 
Her  you:h  would  have  protected  her  compo 
sitions  from  criticism,  but  they  needed  no 
such  protection.  Beyond  the  limited  circle 
of  her  acquaintances,  no  one  knew  the  mean 
ing  of  "  L.  tl.  ;"  but  these  letters  were  soon 
as  familiar  through  all  the  country  as  the 
names  of  favorite  poets.  For  several  years  she 
was  a  contributor  to  The  New-Yorker,  the 
editor  of  which,  Mr.  Greeley  —  one  of  the  first 
justly  to  appreciate  her  merits  —  became  an 
intimate  personal  as  well  as  literary  friend. 
In  midsummer,  1839,  Miss  Hooper  revis 
ited  her  native  village,  and  upon  leaving  it, 
the  lasi  time,  she  wrote  the  following  lines, 


which  have  a  biographical  interest,  though 
they  are  scarcely  equal  to  the  average  of  her 
productions  in  literary  merit: 

LINES  VVF1TTEN  AFTER  VISITING  NEWBURYPORT, 
AUGUST  23,  18S3. 

SWKE  •.--iv.'ne  the  airs  of  home,  when  first  their  breath 
Came  to  the  wanderer,  as  her  gladdened  eye 
Met  the  rich  verdure  of  her  native  hills, 
And  the  clear,  glancing  waters  brought  again 
A  thousand  dreams  of  childhood  to  the  heart 
That  had  so  pined  amid  the  city's  hum 
For  the  glad  breath  of  home,  the  waving  trees, 
And  the  fair  flowers  that  in  the  olden  time 
Blew  freshly  mid  the  rocky  cliffs. 

All  these 

Had  seemed  but  Fancy's  picture,  and  the  hues 
Of  Memory's  pencil,  fainter  day  by  day, 
Gave  back  the  tracery  5  in  the  crowded  mart 
There  were  no  green  paths  where  the  buds  of  home 
Might  blow  unchecked,  and  a  forgotten  thing 
Were  Spring's  first  violets  to  the  wanderer's  heart, 
Till  once  again  amid  those  welcome  haunts 
The  faded  lines  grew  vivid,  and  the  flowers — 
The  fresh,  pure  flowers  of  youth,  brought  back  again 
The  bloom  of  early  thoughts. 

Oh !  bright.lv  glanced 

Thy  waters,  river  of  my  heart,  and  dreams 
Sweeter  than  childhood  conneth  came  anew 
With  my  first  sight  of  thee,  bright  memories  linked 
With  thy  familiar  music,  sparkling  tide! 
The  rocks  and  hills  all  smiled  a  welcome  back, 
And  Memory's  pencil  hath  a  fadeless  green 
For  that  one  hour  by  thee. 

Oh,  gentle  home ! 

Comes  with  thy  name  fair  visions,  kindly  tones, 
Warm  greetings  from  the  heart,  and  eyes  whose  light 
Hath  smiled  upon  my  dreams. 

Yet  golden  links 

Were  strangely  parted,  music  tones  had  past, 
And  ties  unloosed,  that  unto  many  a  heart 
W7ere  bound  with  life ;  the  musing  child  no  more 
Might  watch  the  glancing  of  the  distant  sails, 
And  dream  of  one  whose  glad  returning  step 
Made  ever  the  fair  sunshine  of  her  home ; 
The  sister's  heart  might  no  more  thrill  to  meet 
One  voice,  that  in  the  silence  of  the  grave 
Is  hushed  for  ever,  and  whose  eye's  soft  light 
Come  with  its  starry  radiance,  when  her  soul 
Pines  in  the  silent  hour,  and  there  waves 
O'er  the  last  resting  place  of  one  whose  name 
Is  music  to  the  ear  of  love,  the  green 
And  pensive  willow,  bending  low  its  head 
As  it  would  weep  the  loss  of  that  fair  flower 
Which,  far  removed  from  her  own  native  clime, 
Drooped  in  a  land  of  strangers. 

Home,  sweet  home 

Thire  are  sad  memories  with  thee  ;  earth  hath  not 
283 


LUCY    HOOPER. 


A  place  where  change  ne'er  eometh,  and  where  death 
Doth  cast  no  shadow  !  yet  the  moonlight  lieth 
Soft'y  in  all  thy  still  and  shaded  streets, 
And  the  deep  stars  of  midnight  purely  shine, 
Bringing  a  thought  of  that  far  world  where  Love 
Bindeth  again  his  lost  and  treasured  gems, 
And  in  whose  "  many  mansions"  there  may  be 
A  home  where  change  ne'er  eometh,  and  where  death 
May  leave  no  trace  upon  the  pure  in  heart, 
Who  bend  before  their  Father's  throne  in  heaven  ! 

In  1840,  Miss  Hooper  published  an  Essay 
on  Domestic  Happiness,  and  a  volume  enti 
tled  Scenes  from  Real  Life  ;  and  in  these,  as 
we!  as  in  other  prose  writings,  are  shown 
the  sensibility  and  natural  grace  which  are 
the  charm  of  her  poetry.  It  was  about  the 
same  time  that  she  wrote  The  Last  Hours 
of  a  Young  Poetess,  a  poem  which  has  some 
times  been  referred  to  as  an  illustration  of 
her  own  history. 

The  excellent  Dr.  JohnW.  Francis,  of  whom 
with  a  slight  variation  we  may  use  the  lan 
guage  of  Coleridge  respecting  Sir  Humphrey 
Davy,  that  had  he  not  become  one  of  the  first 
physician?  he  would  have  been  among  the 
most  eminent  literary  men  of  his  age,  is  ad 
mirably  fitted,  as  well  by  his  intimate  obser 
vation  of  the  influence  of  mental  action  upon 
health,  as  by  his  general  professional  skill 
and  gpnial  sympathies,  to  watch  over  and 
protect  so  fragile  and  delicate  a  being,  hap 
pily  attended  Miss  Hooper  in  her  illness ; 
and  in  a  letter  which,  soon  after  her  death, 
he  addressed  to  Mr.  Keese,  the  editor  of  her 
works,  we  have  an  interesting  account  of  the 
close  of  her  life  : 

"  For  a  period  of  many  years,"  he  says, 
"the  cultivation  of  her  mind  was  little  in 
terrupted  ;  and  though  her  corporeal  suffering 
was  often  an  obstacle  to  continuous  ^effort, 
she  sustained  with  unabated  ardor  her  stud 
ies  in  the  ancient  and  modern  languages,  in 
polite  literature,  in  botany,  and  in  several 
of  the  other  branches  of  natural  science. 
Doubtless  the  extent  of  her  reading  and  her 
acquisitions  in  varied  knowledge  contributed 
to  cherish  in  her  family  the  delusive  expec 
tation  that  her  constitution  was  destined  for 
a  longer  career  of  active  exertion  than  fell  to 
her  lot.  Mental  effort  may  in  some  instances 
protract  the  duration  of  those  energies  which 
at  length  it  consumes.  But  the  hopes  cher 
ished  by  her  too  ardent  friends  never  for  a 
moment  deceived  herself.  For  the  last  four 
months  of  her  existence,  her  physical  pow- 
prs  were  yielding  to  the  combined  influence 

19 


of  disease  and  intellectual  action  ;  and  after 
a  few  days  of  aggravated  suffering,  painful 
evidences  were  manifest  of  the  fatality  which 
was  impending.  Her  disorder  Avas  pulmo 
nary  consumption  ;  and  the  insidious  peculi 
arities  of  that  treacherous  malady  were  con 
spicuous  in  her  case  in  an  eminent  degree. 
Within  three  days  of  her  dissolution  she  was 
occupied,  with  intervals  of  serious  reflection, 
in  her  literary  labors,  and  conversed  freely 
on  her  projected  plan  of  a  series  of  moral 
tales,  her  book  on  flowers,  and  other  works. 
Her  life  and  habits  of  thought  had  long  pre- 
|  pared  her  for  the  final  event:  severe  exam 
ination  and  inquiry  contributed  to  strengthen 
the  consolation  of  religion.  In  her  death, 
which  was  without  pain  and  without  a  strug 
gle,  she  bequeathed  to  her  friends  triumphant 
evidences  of  that  hope  which  animates  the 
expiring  Christian." 

She  died  in  Brooklyn,  on  the  first  of  Au 
gust,  1841.  I  happened  at  this  time  to  be  in 
Boston,  and  a  few  days  after,  Mr.  Whittier, 
who  was  one  of  her  intimate  friends,  sent 
me  from  his  place  in  Amesbury  the  following 
beautiful  and  touching  tribute  to  her  memory, 
which  I  had  published  in  one  of  the  papers 
of  that  city: 

"ON  THE  r>K\TH  OF  LUCY  HOOPER. 

"  They  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead — 
That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and  cherished 
Has  with  thy  summer  roses  perished; 
And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 
An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead  ! — 
Cold  twilight  of  a  parted  day. 
That  true  and  loving  heart — that  gift 
Of  a  mind  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 
Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  beautiful  and  good — 
And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest 
Save  with  the  loveliest  and  the  best — 
Of  them,  of  thee,  remains  there  naught 
But  sorrow  in  the  mourner's  breast — 
A  shadow  in  the  land  of  Thought  ] 
"  No  !     Even  my  weak  and  trembling  faitb 
Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 
And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 
Even  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still ; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill, 
And  pain,  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The  same  as  when  two  summers  back, 
Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimack, 
I  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 


290 


LUC  Y   HOOPER. 


Of  sere  leaves  by  the  west-wind  b'own. 
There's  not  a  charm  of  soul  or  brow, 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee, 
But  lives  in  ho  ier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality  ! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 

Of  souls  that  with  their  earthly  mould 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old — 
Unbodied — like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold  ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  ob'ivion's  rest, 
Lile's  myriads  blending  into  one, 

In  bhtnk  annihilation  blest; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite — 
Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light, 
And  winning  back,  through  mortal  pain, 
Their  old  unconsciousness  again  ! — 
No  !   I  have  friends  in  spirit-land, 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themse.ves,  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came ; 
Their  change,  t.,e  holy  morn-light  breaking 
rpun  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  waking — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day  ! 
They  've  laid  thee  midst  the  household  graves, 

Wnere  father,  brother,  sister,  lie ; 
Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky  ; 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 
And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her  prayer 
The  turf  laid  1  ghtly  o'er  thee  there  : 
That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  o'd,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted,  to  thy  bosom  taken 
As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  lifelike  it  must  seem  to  thee, 
And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
O'er  all  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
And  kindled  up  intense  and  warm 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form  ; 
As,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 
A  spirit  iilled  the  vast  machine — 
A  life  '  within  the  wheels'  was  seen  ! 
"  Farewell ! — a  little  time,  and  we 

Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee  here, 
One  after  one  shall  follow  thee, 

As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  Fear 
Which  opens  on  Eternity. 
Yet  we  shall  cherish  not  the  less 

AH  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile ; 
The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  smile, 
Like  moon  ight,  when  the  sun  has  set 
A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense  of  duty, 

Thy  generous  scorn  of  all  things  wrong; 
The  trulh,  the  strength,  the  graceful  beauty, 

Which  blended  in  thy  song; 


All  lovely  things  by  thee  beloved 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee : 
These  green  hills  where  thy  childhood  roved  • 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea; 
The  sunset  light  of  Autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods  ; 
Cloud,  crimson  sky,  and  trembling  leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods — 
These  in  our  view  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake. 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory." 

The  general  regret  at  her  death  was  shown 
j  ia  many  such  feeling  tributes.     Another  is 
I  quoted  here,  not  so  much  for  its  own  beauty, 
as  for  the  opinions  it  embodies  of  one  of  our 
most  accomplished  critics  respecting  her  ge 
nius  and  character : 

ON   THE   DEATH  OF  MISS  LUCY  HOOPER. 
HI'   H.  T.  TUCKKKMAN. 

"  And  thou  art  gone  !  sweet  daughter  of  the  lyre, 

Whose  strains  we  hoped  to  hear  thee  waken  long  ,• 
Gone — as  the  stars  in  morning's  light  expire, 

Gone  like  the  rapture  of  a  passing  song  ; 
Gone  from  a  circle  who  thy  gifts  have  cherished, 

With  genial  fondness  and  devoted  care, 
W  hose  dearest  hopes  with  thee  have  sadly  perished, 

And  now  can  find  no  solace  but  in  prayer ; 
Prayer  to  be  like  thee,  in  so  meeklv  bearing 

Both  joy  and  sorrow  from  thy  Maker's  hand  ; 
Prayer  to  put  on  the  white  robes  thou  art  wearing, 

And  join  thy  anthem  in  the  better  land." 

Miss  Hooper's  life  was  singularly  indus 
trious,  considering  the  feebleness  of  her  con- 
sti  ution.  She  seemed  to  be  sensible  that  her 
abilities  were  a  trust  which  imposed  respon 
sibilities,  and  she  never  suffered  time  to  pass 
unimproved.  Some  of  her  last  days  were 
devoted  to  the  preparation  of  a  work  entitled 
The  Poetry  of  Flowers,  which  was  published 
soon  after  her  death.  She  had  in  anticipa 
tion  also  another  work  in  prose  similar  to 
her  Scenes  from  Domestic  Life,  and  her  in 
clination  had  led  her  to  undertake  a  long 
poem,  upon  some  historical  subject.  It  is  to 
be  regretted  that  death  prevented  ibis  project 
from  being  realized. 

In  1842  Mr.  John  Keese  collected  and  ar 
ranged  the  Literary  Remains  of  Miss  Hoop 
er,  which  he  published  with  a  graceful  and 
affectionate  memoir  of  her  life  and  genius. 
No  one  knew  her  more  intimately,  and  there 
are  few  whose  appreciation  of  personal  char 
acter  and  poetical  merit  would  have  enabled 
them  so  well  to  perform  this  mournfully  pleas 
ing  duty.  In  the  present  year  (1848)  a  new 
and  considerably  enlarged  edition  of  her  Po 
etical  Works  has  appeared  from  the  press  of 
Mr.  D.  Fanshaw. 


LUCY    HOOPER. 


291 


THE  SUMMONS  OF  DEATH.* 

A  VOICE  is  on  mine  ear — a  solemn  voice 

I  come,  I  come,  it  calls  me  to  my  rest ; 
Faint  not  rny  yearning  heart,  rejoice,  rejoice, 

Soon  shalt  thou  reach  the  gardens  of  the  blest : 
On  the  bright  waters  there,  the  living  streams, 

Soon  shalt  thou  launch  in  peace  thy  weary  bark, 
Waked  by  rude  waves  no  more  from  gentle  dreams, 

Sadly  to  feel  that  earth  to  thee  is  dark — 
Not  bright  as  once  ;  oh  vain,  vain  memories,  cease, 
I  cast  your  burden  down  —I  strive  for  peace. 

A  voice  is  on  mine  ear — a  welcome  tone  : 

1  hear  its  summons  in  a  stranger  land, 
Tt  cal  s  me  hence,  to  die  amid  mine  own, 

Where  first  my  forehead,  by  the  wild  breeze  fanned, 
Lost  the  fair  tracery  of  youth,  and  wore 

A  deeper  signet,  in  my  manhood's  prime — 
To  lay  me  down  with  those  who  wake  no  more, 

It  calls  me — those  1  loved,  their  couch  be  mine : 
I  hear  sweet  voices  from  my  childhood's  home, 
And  from  my  father's  grave — T  come,  I  come  ! 

Blest  be  the  warning  sound  :  my  mother's  eyes 

Dwell  on  my  memory  yet,  her  parting  tears, 
And  from  the  grave  where  my  young  sister  lies, 

Who  perished  in  the  glory  of  her  years, 
I  hear  a  gentle  call,  "  Return,  return  !" 

So  be  it :  let  me  greet  the  village  spires 
Once  more.  I  come — 't  is  wilding  youth  may  spurn, 

When  far,  the  burial-places  of  his  sires ; 
But  oh.  when  strength  is  gone,  and  hope  is  past, 
There  turns  the  wearied  man  his  thoughts  at  last. 

So  do  we  change  !     I  hear  a  warning  tone — 

Yea,  T,  whose  thoughts  were  all  of  bypast  times, 
Of  ancient  glories,  and  from  visions  lone, 

I  come  to  list  once  more  the  sabbath  chimes 
Of  my  own  home  —to  feel  the  gentle  air 

Steal  o'er  my  brow  again — to  greet  the  sun 
In  the  okl  places  where  he  shone  so  fair, 

The  while  each  wandering  brook  in  music  ran, 
Answering  to  Youth's  sweet  thoughts,  but  all  are 
I  come,  my  home,  I  come  to  join  thy  dead  !  [fled — 

I  heed  the  warning  voice :  oh,  spurn  me  not, 

My  early  friends ;  let  the  bruised  heart  go  free : 
Mine  were  high  fancies,  but  a  wayward  lot 

Hath  made  my  youthful  dreams  in  sadness  flee ; 
Then  chide  not,  I  would  linger  yet  awhile, 

Thinking  o'er  wasted  hours,  a  weary  train, 
Cheered  by  the  moon's  soft  light  the  sun's  glad  smile, 

Watching  the  blue  sky  o'er  my  path  of  pain, 
Waiting  my  summons  :  whose  shall  be  the  eye 
To  glance  unkindly  —  I  have  come  to  die  ! 

Sweet  words — to  die  !  oh  p'easant.  pleasant  sounds, 
What  bright  revealings  to  my  heart  they  bring; 


*  And  -hould  they  a^k  the  cau-e  of  my  return.  I  will 
tell  th.  in  that  a  m;m  may  TO  far  and  tarry  long  away,  if 
Bbhfhlth  he  <:ood  and  hi-  Imp.  s  hi-li,  hut  'that  when  llesh 
an. I  spirit  br^in  to  tail,  lu-  rem-mber-  his  bi> thplace  mid 
Inn  o'd  burial  ground,  and  hears  a  voice  callinir  him  to 
come  home  to  hi.-  tiither  and  mother.  They  will  know 
i>\  n,y  wasted  frame  and  feeble  ,-tep.  that  I  have  heard 
the  -linmions  and  obeyed;  and,  the  first  jrreetinsrs  over. 
fhey  \\-ili  !,.[  me  walk  among  them  unnoticed,  and  linger 
in  Hie.  sunshine  while  I  may,  and  ste^  into  my  grave" in 
ftmct?.- Journal  of  a  Solitary  Man. 


WThat  melody,  unheard  in  earth's  dull  rounds, 
And  floating  from  the  land  of  glorious  Spring — 

The  eternal  home  !  my  weary  thoughts  revive, 
Fresh  flowers  my  mind  puts  forth,  and  buds  of  love, 

Gentle  and  kindly  thoughts  for  all  that  live, 
Fanned  by  soft  breezes  from  the  world  above : 

And  passing  not,  I  hasten  to  my  rest — 

Again,  oh  gentle  summons,  thou  art  blest ! 


"TIME,  FAITH,  ENERGY."* 

HIGH  words  and  hopeful ! — fold  them  to  thy  heart 
Time,  Faith,  and  Energy,  are  gifts  sublime ; 
If  thy  lone  bark  the  threatening  waves  surround 
Make  them  of  all  thy  silent  thoughts  a  part. 
When  thou  wouldst  cast  thy  pilgrim  staff  away, 
Breathe  to  thy  soul  their  high,  mysterious  sound, 
And  faint  not  in  the  noontide  of  thy  day  : 
Wait  thou  for  Time  !     • 

Wait  thou  for  Time :  the  slow-unfolding  flower 
Chides  man's  impatient  haste  with  long  delay  ; 
The  harvest  ripening  in  the  autumnal  sun ; 
The  golden  fruit  of  Suffering's  weighty  power 
Within  the  soul — like  soft  bells'  siivery  chime 
Repeat  the  tones,  if  fame  may  not  be  won, 
Or  if  the  heart  where  thou  shouldst  find  a  shrina, 

Breathe  forth  no  blessing  on  thy  lonely  way- 
Wait  Ihou  for  Time :  it  hath  a  sorcerer's  power 
To  dim  life's  mockeries  that  gaylv  shine, 
To  lift  the  veil  of  seeming  from  the  real, 
Bring  to  thy  soul  a  rich  or  fearful  dower, 
Write  golden  tracery  on  the  sands  of  life, 
And  raise  the  drooping  heart  from  scenes  ideal 
To  a  high  purpose  in  the  world  of  strife : 

WTait  thou  for  Time  ! 

Yea,  wait  for  Time,  but  to  thy  heart  take  Faith, 
Soft  beacon-light  upon  a  stormy  sea ; 
A  mantle  for  the  pure  in  heart,  to  pass 
Through  a  dim  world,  untouched  by  living  death, 
A  cheerful  watcher  through  the  spirit's  night, 
Soothing  the  grief  from  which  she  may  not  flee — 
A  herald  of  glad  news — a  seraph  bright, 

Pointing  to  sheltering  havens  yet  to  be. 

Yea,  Faith  and  Time — and  thou  that  through  the 
Of  the  lone  night  hast  nerved  the  feeble  hand,  [hour 
Kindled  the  weary  heart  with  sudden  fire, 
(Jilted  the  drooping  soul  with  living  power, 
Immortal  Energy  !  shalt  thou  not  be 
M  hile  the  old  tales  our  wayward  thoughts  inspire, 
Linked  with  each  vision  of  high  destiny, 

Till  on  the  fadeless  borders  of  that  land 

Where  all  is  known  we  find  our  certain  way, 
And  lose  ye,  mid  its  pure,  effulgent  light  ] 
Kind  ministers,  who  cheered  us  in  our  gloom, 
Seraphs  who  lightened  griefs  with  guiding  ray, 
Whispering  through  tears  of  cloudless  glory  dawn- 
Say,  in  the  gardens  of  eternal  bloom  [ing — • 
Will  not  our  hearts,   when  breaks  the  cloudless 

morning, 
Joy  that  ye  led  us  through  the  drooping  nigh  I » 

*  Suggested  by  a  passage  in  Bulwer's  Night  and  Morn 


LUCY    HOOPER. 


LAST  HOURS  OF  A  YOUNG  POETESS. 

"  Alas',  our  young  affection*  run  to  waste 
Or  water  but  tire  desert,  whence  arise 
Hut  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  baste, 
Hank  at  the  <  ore,  but  tempting  to  the  eyes, 
Flowers  whose  wild  odur.->  breathe  hut  agonies. 
And  trees  whose  «iui)s  are  poison:  snoli  tire  fruits 
Which  spun::  beneath  her  steps,  as  Passion  Hies 


ilde 


ly  pants 


()  .•!-  the  w  ilil  wild. -i  ness.  an. I  vainly  pants 
For  some  i  elestial  fruit,  forbidden  to  our  wants  '."—Byron. 

Tiutow  up  the  window!  that  the  earnest  eyes 
Of  the  young  devotee  at  Nature's  shrine 
May  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  this  breathing  world 
From  which  she  is  removing. 

Men  will  say 

This  is  an  early  death,  and  they  will  write 
The  record  of  her  few  and  changeful  years 
Writh  wonder  on  the  marble,  and  then  turn 
Away  with  thoughtful  brows  from  the  green  sod, 
Yet  pass  to  daily  business,  for  the  griefs 
That  press  on  busy  spirits  may  not  turn 
Their  steps  aside  from  the  worn  paths  of  life, 
Or  bear  upon  the  memory  when  the  quick 
And  selfish  course  of  daily  care  sweeps  by. 
Yet,  when  they  speak  of  that  lost  one,  'twill  be 
With  tones  of  passionate  marvel,  for  they  watched 
Her  bright  career  as  they  would  watch  a  star 
Of  dazzling  brilliancy,  and  mourn  to  see 
Its  glory  quenched,  and  wonder  while  ye  mourned 
How  the  thick  pall  of  darkness  could  be  thrown 
O'er  such  a  radiant  thing. 

Is  this  the  end 

Of  all  thy  glorious  visions,  young  Estelle  ] 
Hath  thy  last  hours  drawn  on,  and  will  thy  life 
Pass  by  as  quickly  as  the  perfumed  breath 
Of  some  fair  flower  upon  the  zephyr's  wings'! 
And  will  they  lay  thee  in  the  quiet  grave, 
And  never  know  how  fervently  thy  heart 
Panted  for  its  repose  ]     Oh  !  let  the  peace 
Of  this  sweet  hour  be  hers;  let  her  gaze  forth 
Now  on  the  face  of  Nature  for  the  last, 
While  the  bright  sunbeam  trembles  in  the  air 
Of  the  meek-coming  twilight :  it  will  soothe 
Her  spirit  as  a  spell,  and  waken  up 
Impassioned  thoughts,  and  kindle  burning  dreams, 
And  call  back  glorious  visions. 

Marvel  not 

To  see  her  color  pass,  and  view  the  tears 
Fast  gathering  to  her  eyes,  and  see  her  bend 
In  very  weakness  at  the  fearful  shrine 
Of  Memory,  when  the  glory  of  the  past 
Js  gone  for  ever.     Gaze  not  on  her  now  • 
Her  spirit  is  a  delicate  instrument, 
Nor  can  ye  know  its  measure.     How  unlike 
That  wearied  one  to  the  bright,  gifted  girl, 
Who  knelt  a  worshipper  at  the  deep  shrine 
Of  Poetry,  and,  mid  the  fairest  things, 
Pined  for  lone  solitude — to  read  the  clouds 
With  none  to  watch  her,  and  dream  pleasant  things 
Of  after-life,  and  sec  in  every  flower 
The  mysteries  of  Nature,  and  behold 
In  every  star  the  herald  and  the  sign 
Of  immortality,  till  she  almost  shrank 
To  feel  the  secret  and  expanding  might 
Of  her  own  mind  !  and  thus  amid  the  flowers 
Of  a  glad  home  grew  beautiful.     Away 
With  praises  upon  Time  !  with  hollow  tones 


That  te'l  the  blessedness  of  after-years! 

They  take  the  fragrance  from  the  soul ;  they  rob 

Life  of  its  gloss,  its  poetry,  its  charm, 

Till  the  heart  sickens,  and  the  mental  wing 

Droops  wearily  :   and  thus  it  was  with  her, 

The  gifted  and  the  lovely.     Oh,  how  much 

The  world  will  envy  those  whose  hearts  are  filled 

With  secret  or  unchanging  grief,  if  fame 

Or  outward  splendor  gilds  them  !     Who  among 

The  throngs  that  sung  thy  praises,  young  Estelle, 

Or  crowned  thy  brow  with  laurels,  ever  reckeJ 

That,  wearier  of  thy  chaplet  than  the  slave 

May  be  with  daily  toil,  thy  hand  would  cast 

The  laurel  by  with  loathing,  but  the  pride 

Of  woman's  heart  withheld  thee ! 

Oh,  how  praise 

Falls  on  the  sorrowing  mind ;  how  cold  the  voice 
Of  Flattery,  when  the  spirit  is  bowed  down 
Before  its  mockery,  and  the  heart  is  sick ; 
Praise  for  the  gift  of  genius — for  the  grace 
Of  outward  form — when  the  soul  pines  to  hear 
One  kindly  tone  and  true  !     What  bitter  jest 
It  makcth  of  the  enthusiast,  to  whom 
One  star  alone  can  shine,  one  voice  be  heard 
In  tones  of  blessedness,  to  know  that  crowds 
Of  earth's  light-hearted  ones  are  treasuring  up 
Against  their  day  of  sorrow  the  deep  words 
Of  wretchedness  and  misery  which  burst 
From  an  o'erburdened  spirit,  and  that  minds 
Which  may  not  rise  to  heaven  on  the  wings 
Of  an  inspired  fancy,  yet  can  list 
With  raptured  ear  to  the  ethereal  dreams 
Of  a  high-soaring  genius.     For  this  end 
Didst  thou  seek  fame,  Estelle ; — and   hast  thou 
The  atmosphere  of  poetry,  till  life  [breathed 

With  its  dull  toil  grew  wearisome  and  lone] 

Her  brow  grewquickly  pale, and  murmured  words 
That  not  in  life  dwelt  on  that  gentle  lip, 
Are  spoken  in  the  recklessness  of  death. 
They  tell  of  early  dreams — of  cherished  hopes 
That  faded  into  bitterness  ere  Fame 
Became  the  spirit's  idol,  of  lost  tones 
Of  music,  and  of  well-remembered  words 
That  thrill  the  spirit  yet.     Again  it  comes, 
That  half-reproachful  voice  that  she  hath  spent 
Her  life  at  Passion's  shrine,  and  patient  thero 
Hath  sacrificed,  and  offered  incense  to 
An  absent  idol — that  she  might  not  see, 
Even  in  death — and  then  again  the  strength 
Of  a  high  soul  sustains  her,  and  she  joys, 
Yea,  triumphs  in  her  fame,  that  he  may  hear 
Her  name  with  honor,  when  the  dark  shades  fall 
Around  her,  and  she  sleeps  in  still  repose: 
If  some  faint  tone  should  reach  him  at  the  last 
Of  her  devotedness,  he  will  not  spurn 
The  memory  from  him,  but  his  soul  may  thrill 
To  think  of  her,  the  fervent-hearted  girl, 
Who  turned  from  flattering  tones,  and  idly  cast 
The  treasures  of  her  spirit  on  the  winds, 
And  f,)und  no  answering  voice  ! 

Then  prayed  for  death, 

Since  life's  sweet  spells  had  vanished,  and  her  hopes 
Had  melted  in  thin  air :  and  laying  down 
Her  head  upon  her  pillow,  sought  her  rest, 
And  thought  to  meet  him  in  the  land  of  dreams ! 


LUCY    HOOPER. 


29:* 


THE  TURQUOISE  KING* 

THE  turquoise  ring!  'twas  a  gift  of  power, 
Guarding  her  heart  in  that  weary  hour, 
As  a  magic  spell,  as  a  gem  of  light, 
As  a  pure,  pure  star  amidst  clouds  of  night, 
Bringing  back  to  the  pa'e,  pale  cheek  its  bloom, 
St  engthening  the  heart  in  that  hour  of  doom  ; 
There  was  hope,  there  was  trust  with  its  living  hue. 
The  gem  was  bright,  and  the  lover  true, 
As  a  sign  to  her  heart,  as  a  sign  to  her  eye, 
The  one  bright  gleam  of  a  troubled  sky. 
The  turquoise,  ring!   oh,  the  olden  time 
Hath  many  a  magic  tale  and  si^n, 
Bright  gifts  of  treasure  on  land  and  on  sea, 
But  naught  for  the  heart  or  the  memory  ; 
For  what  might  the  fairy  lamp  of  old 
Yield  to  its  owner  but  gems  and  gold  1 
And  to  her  who  sat  in  that  lonely  hall 
The  turquoise  ring  was  worth  them  all; 
For  the  heart  hath  a  dearer  wealth  than  lies 
In  the  earth's  wide  ha  Is  and  argosies  ; 
And  its  hopes  are  more  precious  than  stores  of  gold 
When  richest  and  rarest  by  miser  told, 
For  what  had  been  gems  that  brightly  shone, 
To  her  who  sat  in  her  grief  alone  ] 

Oh,  the  turquoise  ring  had  a  spell  of  power! 
This  was  a  gift  for  the  weary  hour, 
Linking  the  future  to  all  the  past, 
Breathing  of  moments  too  bright  to  last, 
Till  they  came  in  the  light  of  their  bliss, 
To  soothe,  to  gladden  an  hour  like  this. 
Oh  !  Love  hath  wings,  they  have  said  who  knew, 
And  that  Love  hath  wings  is  a  story  true, 
But  there  lingers  a  bloom  on  his  early  hours, 
When  his  wings  are  folded  mid  opening  flowers, 
Wiien  the  streams  are  bright,  and  the  sky  is  fair, 
And  the  hearts  too  happy  that  trust  him  there  ; 
There  lingers  a  bloom,  and  there  rests  a  glow, 
A  charm  that  the  earth  not  again  may  know  ! 
And  when  from  that  resting-place  he  flies, 
Oil  !  linked  with  a  thousand  memories, 
Each  bud  and  each  leaf  by  our  fond  tears  wet, 
May  breathe  of  his  sweetness  and  beauty  yet! 
Bo  with  the  past,  and  its  holy  love  — 
Sj  with  its  hopes,  that  soared  above — 
With  the  visions  that  came  to  her  nightly  rest, 
Was  the  turquoise  ring  to  her  finger  pressed : 
Oil !   beautiful  to  her  its  light, 
Cou  d  she  forget  that  pleasant  night 
When  first  her  finger's  s'ender  round 
Was  with  the  golden  circlet  bound, 
And  Hushed  r/ne  not  to  see  it  shine, 
But  at  the  low  tone,  "  Love,  be  mine  !" 

Since  then,  since  then,  unchanged  its  hue, 
Her  hope,  her  trust,  alike  were  true ; 
But  pale  at  times  that  cheek  so  bright, 
And  dimmed  those  eyes  of  living  light, 
For  dreams  were  hers  of  pain  and  dread, 

*  1 1  Miss  Martineau's  novel  of  Deerbrook.  the  heroine 

is  in  id,.  K,  piv.-rrvu  vv.th  ureat  care  a  turquoise  ring, 
•which  he>'  lover  had  iriven  i,er  jn  tne  ear]y  (}.iys  Of  ti,,.f,. 
atachment.  and  during  a  lonir  period  of  doubt  and  es- 
taiugemeiit,  to  "believe  that  while  its  lines  continued  un- 
aimrned.  his  laith  remained  to  her  unbroken.  ,So  poetic 
and  iervent  a  belief  met  with  its  appropriate  reward:  the 
turquoise  ring  remained  bright,  and  the  lover  returned. 


Yet  still  the  ring  its  lustre  shed  ; 
They  met  and  parted,  as  of  yore 
Fond  hearts  have  met,  and  chilled  before, 
And  coldness,  sadness,  fear,  had  been 
Like  cloud  upon  the  sunny  scene. 

Yet  woman's  love  will  always  strive, 
And  woman's  faith  through  all  things  live, 
And  beautiful  the  maiden's  truth, 
And  beautiful  her  trusting  youth; 
Through  all,  through  all,  the  turquoise  ring 
A  hope,  a  dream,  a  joy  could  bring; 
And  still,  if  clear  and  bright  its  hue, 
Her  faith  was  firm,  her  lover  true  ! 

Oh,  gift  of  power !  it  brought  at  last 
A  bright,  bright  future  for  the  past ! 
Oh,  gift  of  power !  that  cheek  once  more 
Wore  the  rich  bloom  that  blushed  of  yore ! 
Oh,  gift  of  power !  who  would  not  sing — 
"  For  me,  for  me,  the  turquoise  ring; 
For  me,  for  me,  when  living  faith 
Faints  in  a  world  of  change  and  death; 
When  sick  with  fear  the  heart  may  be, 
And  sad,  oh  !  sad  the  memory  ; 
When  dimly,  dimly,  dimly  glow 
The  hopes,  the  trusts,  that  cling  below — 
Then  give  me,  give  the  turquoise  rii-o. 
Or  the  pure  faith,  a  better  thing !'' 


GIVE  ME  ARMOR  OF  PROOF. 

GIVE  me  armor  of  proof,  I  must  ride  to  the  plain ; 
Give  me  armor  of  proof,  ere  the  trump  sound  again  : 
To  the  halls  of  my  childhood  no  more  am  I  known, 
And  the  nettle  must  rise  where  the  myrtle  hath 
Till  the  conflict  is  over,  the  battle  is  past,    [blown  ! 
Give  me  armor  of  proof — I  am  true  to  the  1'ast ! 
Give  me  armor  of  proof,  bring  me  helmet  and  spear ; 
Away  !  shall  the  warrior's  cheek  own  a  tear  1 
Bring  the  steel  of  Milan — 'tis  the  firmest  and  best, 
And  bind  o'er  my  bosom  its  closely-linked  vest, 
Where  the  head  of  a  loved  one  in  fondness  hath  lain, 
Whose  tears  fell  at  parting  like  warm  summer  rain ! 
Give  me  armor  of  proof:  I  have  torn  from  my  heart 
Each  soft  tie  and  true  that  forbade  me  to  part ; 
Bring  the  sword  of  Damascus — its  blade  cold  ai?.d 

bright, 

That  bends  not  in  conflict,  but  gleams  in  the  fight ; 
And  stay — let  me  fasten  yon  scarf  on  my  breast, 
Love's  light  pledge  and  true — I  will  answer  the  rest ! 
Give  me  armor  of  proof :  shall  the  cry  be  in  vain, 
When  to  life's  sternest  conflicts  we  rush   forth 

amain  1 

The  knight  clad  in  armor  the  battle  may  bide, 
But  wo  to  the  heedless  when  bendeth  the  triod, 
And  wo  to  youth's  morn,  when  we  rode  forth  ulono, 
To  the  conflict  unguarded,  its  gladness  hath  flown  ! 

Give  us  armor  of  proof — our  hopes  were  all  high, 
But  they  passed  like  the  meteor  lights  from  the  sky  i 
Our  hearts'  trust  was  firm,  but  Life's  waves  swept 

away 

One  by  one  the  frail  ties  which  were  shelter  and  stay: 
And  true  was  our  love,  but  its  bonds  broke  in  twain  • 
Give  me  armor  of  proof,  ere  we  ride  forth  again. 


201 


LUCY"    HOOPER. 


Give  me  armor  of  proof:   we  would  turn  from  the  j 
Of  a  wor'd  th;it  is  fading  to  our  that  is  true  ;    [view 
We  would   lift   up  each   thought  from   this  earth- 
shaded  light, 

To  the  regions  above,  where  there  stealeth  ir>  h' i  :ht ; 
And  with  Faith's  chosen  shie  d  by  no  dark  tempests 

riven, 

We  would  gaze  from  earth's  storms  on  the  bright 
ness  of  heaven. 


THE  CAVALIKR'S  LAST  HOURS. 

A  DIRGE,  a  dirge  for  the  young  renown 

Of  the  reckless  cavalier, 
Who  passed  in  his  youth  and  glory  down 

To  the  grave  without  a  fear, 
The  smile  on  his  lip,  and  the  light  in  his  eye — 
Oh  !  say,  was  it  thus  that  the  brave  should  die  ] 

Midst  the  morning's  pomp  and  flowers, 

By  fierce  and  ruffian  bands, 
In  sight  of  his  own  ancestral  towers, 

And  his  father's  sweeping  lands  : 
WTell  that  his  mother  lay  still  and  low, 
Ere  the  cold  clods  pressed  on  her  son's  bright  brow  ! 

Oh,  the  tide  of  grief  swelled  high 

In  hi.s  heart  that  dawn  of  day, 
As  he  looked  his  last  on  the  glorious  sky, 

And  the  scenes  that  round  him  lay  ; 
But  he  trod  the  green  earth  in  that  moment  of  fear 
With  a  statelier  bearing,  the  doomed  cavalier ! 

For  fearless  his  spirit  then, 

And  bravely  he  met  his  fate, 
Till  the  brows  of  those  iron-hearted  men 

Grew  dark  in  their  utter  hate 
Of  the  gallant  victim,  who  met  his  hour 
With  a  song  on  his  lips  for  his  lady's  bower. 

The  light  of  the  festive  hall, 

The  bravest  in  battle  array — 
•  Was  it  thus  that  the  star  of  his  fate  should  fall, 

Was  it  thus  he  should  pass  away  1 
A  dirge,  a  dirge  for  his  hopes  of  fame ; 
The  grave  will  close  o'er  the  noble  name ! 

And  the  tide  of  life  flow  on 

In  its  dull,  deep  current,  as  ever, 
Till  every  trace  of  his  fate  is  gone 

From  its  dark  and  ceaseless  river. 
But  one  may  remember,  oh  young  cavalier — 
Couldst  thou  gaze  but  once  on  the  sleeper  near! 

That  bright  and  fairy  girl, 

With  no  shadow  on  her  brow, 

Save  the  b!ue  vein's  trace  and  the  golden  curl 

She  is  dreaming  of  thee  now. 
She  whispers  thy  name  in  her  gentle  rest; 
But  how  \Vill  she  wake  from  that  slumber  blest! 

A.  dirge,  a  dirge  for  the  young  renown 

Of  the  reckless  cavalier  !  [around, 

He  hath  waved  for  the  last  his  plumed  bonnet 
And  his  parting  words  they  hear,  [cry 

"  (rod  save  King  Charles  !" — a  shriek  :  a  woman's 
ingled  with  the  martial  sounds  that  rent  the 
earth  and  sky  ! 


THK   DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIA3.* 

MOTH  Kit  !   I  bring  thy  gift; 
Take  from  mv  hand  the  dreaded  boon — I  pray 
Take  it;  the  sti.l,  pale  sorrow  of  the  face 
Hath  left  upon  my  soul  its  living  trace, 

Never  to  pass  away, 

Since  from  these  lips  one  word  of  idle  breath 
Blanched  that  calm  face.   Oh,  mother,  this  is  death ! 

What  is  it  that  I  see 

From  al!  the  pure  and  settled  features  gleaming  ? 
Reproach  !  reproach  !  My  dreams  are  strange  and 
Mother  !  hadst  thou  no  pity  on  thy  child  ?  [wild. 

Lo !  a  celestial  smile  seems  softly  beaming 
On  the  hushed  lips ;  my  mother,  canst  thou  brook 
Longer  upon  thy  victim's  face  to  look  1 

Alas  !  at  yester  morn 

My  heart  was  light,  and  to  the  viol's  sound 
I  gay  !y  danced,  while  crowned  with  summer  flowers, 
And  swiftly  by  me  sped  the  flying  hours; 

And  all  was  joy  around — 

Not  death.     Oh,  mother!  could  I  say  thee  nay] 
Take  from  thy  daughter's  hand  thy  boon  away  ! 

Take  it :   mv  heart  is  sad, 
And  the  pure  forehead  hath  an  icy  chill. 
I  dare  not  touch  it,  for  avenging  Heaven 
Hath  shuddering  visions  to  my  fancy  given ; 

And  the  pale  face  appals  me,  cold  and  still, 
With  the  closed  lips.     Oh,  tell  me,  could  I  know 
That  the  pale  features  of  the  dead  were  so  ] 

I  may  not  turn  away  [name 

From  the  charmed  brow ;  and  I  have  heard  his 
Even  as  a  prophet  by  his  people  spoken ; 
And  that  high  brow  in  death  bears  seal  and  token 

Of  one  whose  words  were  flame. 
Oh,  holy  teacher,  couldst  thou  rise  and  live, 
Would  not  these  hushed  lips  whisper,  "  I  forgive !" 

Away  with  lute  and  harp — 
With  the  glad  heart  for  ever,  and  the  dance ' 
Never  again  shall  tabret  sound  for  me. 
Oh,  fearful  mother,  I  have  brought  to  thee 

The  silent  dead  with  his  rebuking  glance, 
And  the  crushed  heart  of  one  to  whom  are  given 
Wild  dreams  of  judgment  and  offended  Heaven! 


EVENING  THOUGHTS. 

THOU  quiet  moon,  above  the  hill-tops  shining, 

How  do  I  revel  in  thy  glances  bright, 
How  does  my  heart,  cured  of  its  vain  repining, 

Take  note  of  those  who  wait  and  watch  thy  light: 
The  student  o'er  his  lonely  volume  bending, 

The  pale  enthusiast,  joying  in  thy  ray, 
And  ever  and  anon  his  dim  thoughts  sending 

Up  to  the  regions  of  eternal  day  ! 
Nor  these  alone — the  pure  and  radiant  eyes 

Of  youth  and  hope  look  up  to  thee  with  love  ; 
Would  it  were  thine,  meek  dweller  of  the  skies, 


*  Written  after  seeing,  nmoiiff  a  collection  of  beautiful 
paintings,  (copies  from  the  old  musters,  recently  sent  to 
New  Yurk  from  Italy,)  one  representing  thf  daughter  of 
Herodias  bearing  the  head  of  John  the'Baptist  on  a  char 
ger.  ;nul  vvciiriiiii  upon  her  countenance  an  expression,  not 
of  triumph,  as  one  might  suppose,  hut  rather  of  .-oft  ;u:d 
sorrowful  remorse,  as  she  looks  upon  the  calm  and  beau 
tiful  features  of  her  victim. 


LUCY   HOOPER. 


To  save  from  tears  !  but  no — too  far  above 
This  dim  cold  earth  thou  shinest,  richly  flinging 

Thy  soft  light  down  on  all  who  watch  thy  beam, 
And  Lo  the  heart  of  sorrow  gently  bringing 

The  glories  pictured  in  life's  morning  stream, 
As  a  loved  presence  back  :  oh,  shine  to  me, 
As  to  the  voyagers  on  the  faithless  sea  ! 
Joy's  beacon  light  !   I  know  that  trembling  Care, 

Warned  by  thy  coining,  hies  him  to  repose, 
And  on  his  pillow  laid,  serenely  there, 

Forgets  his  calling,  that  at  day's  dull  close 
Meek  age  and  rosy  childhood  sink  to  rest, 

And  Passion  lays  her  fever  dreams  aside, 
And  the  unquiet  thought  in  every  breast 

Loses  its  selfish  fervor  and  its  pride,  [ing, 

With  thoughts  of  thee — the  while  their  vigil  keep- 
The  quiet  stars  hold  watch  o'er  beauty  sleeping  ! 
But  unto  me,  thou  still  and  solemn  li^ht,  [trust 

What  mayst  thou  bring  ?   high  hope,  unwavering 
In  Him  who,  for  the  watches  of  the  night, 

Ordained  thy  coming,  and  on  things  of  dust 
Hath  poured  a  gift  of  power — on  wings  to  rise 

From  the  low  earth  and  its  surrounding  gloom 
To  higher  spheres,  tU  as  the  shaded  skies 

Are  lighted  by  thv  glories,  gentle  moon. 
So  are  life's  lonely  hours  and  dark  despair 
*...  ered  by  the  star  of  faith,  the  torch  of  prayer. 

LINES. 

SAY,  have  I  left  thee,  wild  but  gt.  .tie  lyre, 

That  on  the  willow  thou  hast  hung  so  long  1 
Oh,  do  not  still  my  unbidden  thoughts  aspire 

From  my  heart's  fount  ?  flows  not  the  gush  of  song, 
Though  heavily  upon  the  spirit's  wing 
Lies  earthly  care  —  a  dull,  corroding  thing  ] 

Must  it  be  ever  so, 

That  in  the  shadow  and  the  gloom  my  path 
Is  destined  ] — shall  the  high  heart  always  bow  ] 

Father,  may  it  not  pass,  this  cup  of  wrath — 
Shall  not  at  last  the  kindled  flame  bum  free 
On  my  soul's  altar,  consecate  to  thee  1 

Say,  in  my  bosom's  urn 
Shall  feelings  glow  for  ever  unexpressed, 
And  lonely,  fervent  thoughts  unheeded  burn, 

And  passion  linger  on,  a  hidden  guest  ? 
Hath  the  warm  sky  no  token  for  my  heart — 
In  my  green,  early  years  shall  Hope  depart  ] 
Peace  at  this  quiet  hour 
And  holy  thoughts  be  given.     Let  me  soar 
From  life's  dim  air  and  shadowy  skies  that  lower 

Around  me,  and  with  thrilling  heart  adore 
Thy  mercy,  Father  !  who  can  soothe  the  wild, 
Forgetful  murmurings  of  thine  erring  child. 
Ay,  by  the  bitter  dreams, 
The  fervor  wasted  ere  my  spirit's  prime, 

The  few  brief  sunny  gleams 

Ripening  the  heart's  wild  flowers,  that  ere  their  time 
Blew  brightly  and  were  crushed — by  all  the  tears 
That  quenched  the  fiery  thoughts  of  early  years — 
V  es  !  by  each  phantom  shade  that  memory  brings, 
Voices  whose  tone  my  heart  remembers  yet, 
Names  that  no  more  shall  thrill — departed  things 

That  I  would  fain  forget — 
By  the  past  weakness  and  the  coming  trust, 


Father,  I  lay  my  fore'iead  in  the  dust, 
Meeklv  adoring — \ielding  up  my  care 

To  Thee,  v.'ho  through  the  stormy  past  hath  tried 
A  wayward  mind,  which  else  had  deemed  too  fair 

This  fleeting  wor'd,  and  wandered  far  and  wide 
Astray — and  worshipped  still,  forgetting  Thee, 
The  one  bright  star  of  its  ido'atry. 

Nor  be  these  thoughts  in  vain 

To  aid  me  in  this  rude  word's  ruder  strife, 
When  a  high  soul  doth  struggle  with  its  chain,    . 

And  turn  away  in  bitterness  from  life — 
Strengthen  me,  guide  me,  till  in  realms  above 
I  taste  the  untroubled  waters  of  thy  love. 


THE   OLD  DAYS  WE   REMEMBER 

THK  old  days  we  remember, 
How  softly  did  they  glide, 
While  all  untouched  by  worldly  care 

We  wandered  side  by  side  ! 
In  those  pleasant  days,  when  the  sun's  last  rays 

Just  lingered  on  the  hill, 

Or  the  moon's  pale  light  with  the  coming  night 
Shone  o'er  our  pathway  still. 
The  old  days  we  remember — 

Oh  !  there's  nothing  like  them  now, 
The  glow  has  faded  from  our  hearts, 

The  blossom  from  the  bough ; 
In  the  chill  of  care,  midst  worldly  air, 

Perchance  we  are  colder  grown, 
For  stormy  weather,  since  we  roamed  together, 
The  hearts  of  both  have  known. 
The  old  days  we  remember — 
Oh  !  clearer  shone  the  sun, 
And  every  star  looked  brighter  far 

Than  they  ever  since  have  done  ! 
On  the  very  streams  there  lingered  gleams 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
And  the  running  brook  a  music  took 
Our  souls  can  hear  no  more. 
The  old  days  we  remember — 
Oh  !  could  we  but  go  back 
To  their  quiet  hours,  and  tread  once  more 

Their  bright,  familiar  track — 
Could  we  picture  again  what  we  pictured  then, 

Of  the  sunny  world  that  lay 
From  the  green  hillside,  and  the  waters  wide. 
And  our  glad  hearts  far  away  ! 
The  old  days  we  remember, 

When  we  never  dreamed  of  guile, 
Nor  knew  that  the  heart  could  be  cold  below, 

While  the  lip  still  wore  its  smile  ! 
Oh,  we  may  not  forget,  for  those  hours  come  jut 

They  visit  us  in  sleep, 

While  far  and  wide,  o'er  life's  changing1  tide, 
Our  barks  asunder  keep. 
Still,  still  we  must  remember 

Life's  first  and  brightest  days, 
And  a  passing  tribute  render 

As  we  tread  the  busy  maze , 
A  bitter  sigh  for  the  hours  gone  by, 

The  dreams  that  might  not  last. 
The  friends  deemed  true  when  our  hopes  were  ne'v 
And  the  glorious  visions  past ! 


LUCY    HOOPER. 


LINES   SUGGESTED    BY  A  SCENE    IN 
"MAS  IKK  HUMPHREY'S  CLUCK."* 

BKAUTIFUL  child  ;  my  lot  is  cast — 

Hope  from  my  path  hath  for  ever  past; 

Nothing  the  future  can  bring  to  me 

Hath  ever  been  shadowed  in  dreams  to  thee  •, 

The  warp  is  \voven,  the  arrow  sped, 

My  brain  hath  throbbed,  but  my  heart  is  dead  : 

Te  1  ye  my  tale,  then,  for  love  or  go'd  1 — 

Years  have  passed  by  since  that  tale  was  told. 

God  keep  thee,  child,  with  thine  angel  brow, 
Ever  as  sinless  and  bright  as  now; 
Fresh  as  the  roses  of  earliest  spring, 
The  fair,  pure  buds  it  is  thine  to  bring. 
A\  ou!d  that  the  bloom  of  the  soul  could  be, 
Beautiful  spirit !  caught  from  thee  ; 
Would  that  thy  gift  could  anew  impart 
The  roses  that  bloom  for  the  pure  in  heart. 

Beautiful  child  !   mayst  thou  never  hear 
Tones  of  reproach  in  thy  sorrowing  ear ; 
Beautiful  child  !  may  that  cheek  ne'er  glow 
With  a  warmer  tint  from  the  heart  below : 
Beautiful  child  !   mayst  thou  never  bear 
The  clinging  weight  of  a  cold  despair — • 
A  heart,  whose  madness  each  hope  hath  crossed, 
Which  hath  thrown  one  die,  and  the  stake  hath  lost. 

Beautiful  child  !  why  shouldst  thou  stay  ] 

There  is  danger  near  thee  —  away,  away  ! 

Away  !  in  thy  spotless  purity  : 

Nothing  can  here  be  a  type  of  thee; 

The  very  air,  as  it  fans  thy  brow, 

May  leave  a  trace  on  its  stainless  snow  : 

Lo  !   spirits  of  evil  haunt  the  bowers, 

And  the  serpent  glides  from  the  trembling  flowers. 

Beautiful  child  !  alas,  to  see 
A  fount  in  the  desert  gush  forth  for  thee, 
Where  the  queenly  lilies  should  faintly  gleam, 
And  thy  life  flow  on  as  its  silent  stream 
Afar  from  the  world  of  doubt  and  sin  — 
This  weary  world  thou  must  wander  in  : 
Such  a  home  was  once  to  my  vision  given — 
It  comes  to  my  heart  as  a  type  of  heaven. 

Beautiful  child  !  let  the  weary  in  heart 

Whisper  thee  once,  ere  again  we  part; 

Tell  thee  that  want,  and  tell  thee  that  pain 

Never  can  thrill  in  the  throbbing  braiu, 

Till  a  sadder  story  that  brain  hath  learned — 

Till  a  fiercer  fire  hath  in  it  burned : 

God  keep  thee  sinless  and  undefiled, 

Though  poor,  and  wretched,  and  sad,  my  child  ! 

Beautiful  being  !  away,  away  ! 

The  angels  above  be  thy  help  and  stay, 

•Save  thee  from  sorrow,  and  save  thee  from  sin, 

Guard  thee  from  danger  without  and  within. 

Pure  be  thy  spirit,  and  breathe  for  me 

A  sigh  or  a  prayer  when  thy  heart  is  free ; 

In  the  crowded  mart,  by  the  lone  wayside, 

Beautiful  child  !  be  thy  God  thy  guide. 

•  "Nelly  bore  upon  her  arm  the  little  basket  with  her 
flowers,  and  sometimes  stopped,  with  timid  and  modest 
looks,  to  nfiVr  tb«:in  at  some  gay  carnage There 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 


La  mort  eat  le  seul  dieu  qtie  J'c 


nploier. 


NOT  unto  thee,  oh  pale  and  radiant  Death ! 
Not  unto  thee,  though  every  hope  be  past, 
Through  Life's  first,  sweetest  stars  may  shine  na 

more, 

Nor  earth  again  one  cherished  dream  restore, 
Or  from  the  bright  urn  of  the  future  cast 
Aught,  aught  of  joy  on  me. 

Yet  unto  thee,  oh  monarch !  robed  and  crowned, 
And  beautiful  in  all  thy  sad  array, 
I  bring  no  incense,  though  the  heart  be  chill, 
And  to  the  eyes,  that  tears  alone  may  fill, 

Shines  not  as  once  the  wonted  light  of  day, 
Still  upon  another  shrine  my  vows 

Shall  all  be  duly  paid;  and  though  thy  voice 
Is  full  of  music  to  the  pining  heart, 
And  woos  one  to  that  pillow  of  calm  rest, 
Where  all  Life's  dull  and  restless  thoughts  depart, 
Still,  not  to  thee,  oh  Death  ! 

I  pay  my  vows ;  though  now  to  me  thy  brow 
Seems  crowned  with  roses  of  the  summer  prime, 
And  to  the  aching  sense  thy  voice  would  be, 
Oh  Death  !  oh  Death  !  of  softest  melody, 
And  gentle  ministries  alone  were  thine, 
Still  I  implore  thee  not. 

But  thou,  oh  Life  !  oh  Life  !  the  searching  test 
Of  the  weak  heart !  to  thee,  to  thee  I  bow ; 
And  if  the  fire  upon  the  altar  shrine 
Descend,  and  scathe  each  glowing  hope  of  mine, 
Still  may  my  heart,  as  now, 
Turn  not  from  that  dread  test. 

But  let  me  pay  my  vows  to  thee,  oh  Life  ! 
And  let  me  hope  that  from  that  glowing  fire 
There  yet  may  be  redeemed  a  gold  more  pure 
And  bright,  and  eagle  thoughts  to  mount  and  soar 

Their  flight  the  higher, 
Released  from  earthly  hope  or  earthly  fear. 

This,  this,  oh  Life  !  be  mine. 
Let  others  strive  thy  glowing  wreaths  to  bind — • 
Let  others  seek  thy  false  and  dazzling  gleams: 
For  me  their  light  went  out  on  early  streams, 
And  faded  were  thy  roses  in  my  grasp, 
No  more,  no  more  to  bloom. 
Yet  as  the  stars,  the  holy  stars  of  night, 

Shine  out  when  all  is  dark, 

So  would  I,  cheered  by  hopes  more  purely  bright, 
Tread  still  the  thorny  path  whose  close  is  light, 
If,  but  at  last,  the  tossed  and  weary  bark 
Gains  the  sure  haven  of  her  final  rest. 

was  but  one  lady  who  seemed  to  understand  the  child, 
and  >he  was  one  who  sat  alone  in  a  handsome  carriage, 
while  two  younir  men  in  dashing  ciotbes,  who  had  just 
d;8mounted  from  it.  talked  and  laughed  loudly  at  a  little 
distance,  appearing  to  forjret  her  quite.  There  were  many 
ladies  all  around,  but  they  turned  their  backs,  or  looked 
another  way,  or  at  the  two  young  men,  (not  unfavorably 
at  thi-jjt.}  and  left  her  to  herself/  .^he  motioned  away  a 
gipsy-woman,  urgent  to  tell  her  fortune,  sayinir.  that  it 
was  told  already,  and  had  been  for  some  years,  but  called 
the  child  toward  her,  and  taking  her  flowers,  put  money 
into  her  trembling  hand,  and  bade  her  go  home,  and  keep 
at  home,  for  God's  sake " 


LUCY    HOOPER. 


297 


LEGENDS  OF  FLOWERS*1 

OH,  gorgeous  tales  in  clays  of  old 

Were  linked  with  opening  flowers, 
As  if  in  their  fairy  urns  of  gold 

Beat  human  hearts  like  ours ; 
The  nuns  in  their  cloister,  sad  and  pale, 

As  they  watched  soft  buds  expand, 
On  their  glowing  petals  traced  a  tale 

Or  legend  of  holy  land. 
Brightly  to  them  did  thy  snowy  leaves 

For  the  sainted  Mary  shine, 
As  they  twined  for  her  forehead  vestal  wreaths 

Of  thy  white  buds,  cardamine  ! 

The  crocus  shone,  when  the  fields  were  bare, 

W  ith  a  gay,  rejoicing  smile  ; 
But  the  hearts  that  answered  Love's  tender  prayer 

Grew  brightened  with  joy  the  while. 
Of  the  coming  spring  and  the  summer's  light, 

To  others  that  flower  might  say, 
But  the  lover  welcomed  the  herald  bright 

Of  the  glad  St.  Valentine's  day. 
The  crocus  was  hailed  as  a  happy  flower, 

And  the  holy  saint  that  day 
Poured  out  on  the  earth  their  golden  shower 

To  light  his  votaries'  way. 

On  the  day  of  St.  George,  the  brave  St.  George, 

To  merry  Eng'and  dear, 
By  field  and  by  fell,  and  by  mountain  gorge, 

Shone  hyacinths  blue  and  clear : 
Lovely  and  prized  was  their  purple  light, 

And  'twas  said  in  ancient  story, 
That  their  fairy  bells  rung  out  at  night 

A  peal  to  old  England's  glory ; 
And  sages  read  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  the  flowers  so  widely  known, 
That  by  white  sail  spread  over  ocean's  blue, 

Should  the  empire's  right  be  shown. 

And  thou  of  faithful  memory, 

St.  John,  thou  "  shining  light," 
Beams  nc.t  a  burning  torch  for  thee, 

The  scarlet  lychnis  bright? 
While  holy  Mary,  at  thy  shrine, 

Another  pure  flower  blooms, 
Welcome  to  thee  with  news  divine, 

The  lily's  faint  perfumes ; 
Proudly  its  stately  head  it  rears, 

Arrayed  in  virgin  white — 
So  Truth,  amid  a  world  of  tears, 

Doth  shine  with  vestal  light. 

And  thou,  whose  opening  buds  were  shown, 

A  Savior's  cross  beside, 
We  hail  thee,  passion  flower  alone, 

Sacred  to  Christ,  who  died. 
No  image  of  a  mortal  love, 

May  thy  bright  blossoms  be 
Linked  with  a  passion  far  above 

A  Savior's  agony. 

*  Tlirs<>  lines  refer  to  some  of  the  old  fanciful  ideas  at- 

ached  to  the  opening  of  flowers.    In  the  RomUh  church 

tt  events  were  carefully  noted  down,  and  every  flower 

wsommg  on  a  saint's  day  was  considered  to  bloom  in 

Honor  ot  that  saint. 


All  other  flowers  are  pale  and  dim, 

All  other  gifts  are  loss, 
We  twine  thy  matchless  buds  for  him 

Who  died  on  holy  cross. 


OSCEOLA. 

NOT  on  the  battle-plain, 
As  when  thy  thousand  warriors  joyed  to  meet  tlioc. 

Sounding  the  fierce  war-cry, 

Leading  them  forth  to  die : 
Not  thus — not  thus  we  greet  thee. 

But  in  a  hostile  camp, 
Lonely  amid  thy  foes — 

Thine  arrows  spent, 

Thy  brow  unbent, 
Yet  wearing  record  of  thy  people's  woes. 

Chief!  for  thy  memories  now, 
While  the  tall  palm  against  this  quiet  sky 

Her  branches  waves, 

And  the  soft  river  laves 
The  green  and  flower-crowned  banks  it  wanders  by 

W'hile  in  this  golden  sun 
The  burnished  rifle  gleameth  with  strange  light, 

And  sword  and  spear 

Rest  harmless  here, 
Yet  flash  with  startling  radiance  on  the  sight ; 

Wake  they  thy  glance  of  scorn, 
Thou  of  the  folded  arms  and  aspect  stern  1 

Thou  of  the  soft,  deep  tone,* 

For  whose  rich  music  gone, 
Kindred  and  tribe  full  soon  may  vainly  yearn ! 

Wo  for  the  trusting  hour  ! 
Oh,  kingly  stag,  no  hand  hath  brought  thee  down : 

'T  was  with  a  patriot's  heart, 

W7here  fear  usurped  no  part, 
Thou  earnest,  a  noble  offering — and  alone ! 

For  vain  yon  army's  might, 
While  for  thy  band  the  wide  plain  owned  a  tree, 

And  the  wild  vine's 'tangled  shoots 

On  the  gnarled  oak's  mossy  roots 
Their  trysting-place  might  be. 

Wo  for  thy  hapless  fate  ! 
Wo  for  thine  evil  times  and  lot,  brave  chief! 

Thy  sadly -closing  story, 

Thy  quickly-vanished  glory, 
Thy  high  but  hopeless  struggle,  brave  and  brief. 

Wo  for  the  bitter  stain 
That  from  our  country's  banner  may  not  part ! 

Wo  for  the  captive — wo  ! 

For  bitter  pains  and  slow 
Are  his  who  dieth  of  the  fevered  heart ' 

Oh,  in  that  spirit-land, 
Where  never  yet  the  oppressor's  foot  hath  passed  . 

Chief!  by  those  sparkling  streams 

Whose  beauty  mocks  our  dreams, 
May  that  high  heart  have  won  its  rest  at  last ' 


*  Osceola  was  remarkable  for  a  soft  and  tlutelike  voico. 
The  above  poem  was  written  upon  seeing  a  picture  o1 
him  by  Captain  Vinton,  U.  S.  A.,  representing  him  as  be 
appeared  in  the  American  camp. 


SARAH    EDO  ART  ON    MAYO. 

(Born  1818— Died  1848). 


Miss  SARAH  C.  EDGARTON,  who  in  1846 
became  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  A.  D.  MAYO, 
minister  of  the  Universal ist  Church  in  Glou 
cester,  Massachusetts,  was  born  in  Shirley, 
in  that  state,  in  1819.  When  about  seven 
teen  years  of  age  she  began  to  write  for  the 
literary  and  religious  journals,  and  in  1838 
she  edited  the  first  volume  of  The  Rose  of 
Sharon,  an  annual,  of  which  nine  other  vol 
umes  were  afterward  issued  under  her  direc 
tion.  She  also  edited  for  several  years  The 
Ladies'  Repository,  a  monthly  magazine  of 
religion  and  letters,  published  in  Boston.  Be 


sides  her  numerous  contributions  to  The  New- 
Yorker,  The  New  World,  The  Tribune,  The 
Knickerbocker,  andother  periodicals,she  pub 
lished,  in  the  ten  years  from  1838  to  1848, 
The  Palfreys,  »,J!eii  Clifford  or  the  Genius 
of  Reform,  The  Poetry  of  Woman,  Spring 
Flowers,  Memoir  and  Poems  of  Mrs.  Julia 
H.Scott,  The  Flower  Vase,  Fables  of  Flora, 
and  The  Floral  Fortune-Teller.  These  are 
small  volumes,  and  two  or  three  of  them  con 
sist  in  part  of  extracts  ;  but  they  are  all  illus 
trative  of  a  delicate  apprehension  of  beauty 
and  truth.  She  died  on  the  ninth  of  July,  1848. 


THE  SUPREMACY  OF  GOD. 

THE  clouds  broke  solemnly  apart,  and,  mass 
By  mass,  their  heavy  darkness  bore  away 
With  sullen  mutterings,  leaving  mountain-pass 
And  rocky  defile  open  to  the  day. 
The  pinnacles  of  Zion  glittering  lay 
In  the  rich  splendor  of  Jehovah's  light, 
Which,  pouring  down  with  a  meridian  sway, 
Bathed  mouldering  tower  and  barricaded  height 

In  floods  of  dazzling  rays,  bewildering  to  the  sight ! 
God  shone  upon  the  nations.     In  the  West 
The  owl-like  Druid  saw  the  brightening  rays, 
And  muffling  his  gray  robes  across  his  breast, 
Strode  like  a  phantom  from  the  coining  blaze. 
Old  Odin,  throned  amid  the  polar  haze, 
Heard  the  shrill  cry  of  Vala  on  the  blast, 
And  glancing  southward  with  a  wild  amaze, 
Saw  God's  bright  banner  o'er  the  nations  cast, 

Then  to  his  dim  old  halls  retreated  far  and  fast. 
But  nearer  yet,  and  quivering  in  the  blaze 
That  wrapped  Olympus  with  a  shroud  of  glory, 
Great  Jove  rose  up,  the  pride  of  Rome's  proud  days, 
His  awful  head  with  centuries  grown  hoary. 
His  sceptre  reeking  and  his  mantle  gory  ! 
Great  Jove,  the  dread  of  each  inferior  god, 
Renowned  in  song,  immortalized  in  story, 
No  longer  shook  Olympus  with  his  nod,     [trod. 

But  shivering  like  a  ghost,  down,  down  to  hades 
Egyptian  Isis,  from  the  mystic  rites 
Of  her  voluptuous  priesthood  shrank  in  awe, 
Mazed  by  the  splendor  throned  on  Zion's  heights, 
More  dreadful  than  the  flame  which  Israel  saw 
Break  forth  from  Sinai  when  God  gave  the  law  ! 
To  her  more  dreadful,  for  beneath  its  sway 
She  saw,  with  prophet  gaze,  how  soon  her  power 
Must,  liKe  the  brooding  night-haze,  melt  away, 
And  leave  her  where  the  mists  of  ages  lower — 

The  grim  ghosts  of  a  dream  mocked  in  the  noon- 
t'de  hour. 


And  gentler  deities — the  spirits  bright 
That  haunted  mountain  glen  and  woodland  shade, 
That  watched  o'er  sleeping  shepherds  thro'  the  night 
And  blest  at  early  dawn  the  bright-eyed  maid — • 
The  nymphs  and  dryads  of  the  fount  and  glade, 
The  best  divinities  of  home  and  hearth, 
These,  with  an  exile  footstep,  slowly  strayed, 
And  lingered  by  each  haunt  of  olden  mirth, 

Till  their  bright  forms  grew  dim,  and  vanished  from 

the  earth. 

Now  Gon  is  Goo  !     The  Alpine  summit  rings 
With  the  loud  echoes  of  Jehovah's  praise; 
And  from  the  valley  where  the  cow-boy  sings, 
Go  up  to  God  alone  his  votive  lays. 
To  him  the  mariner  at  midnight  prays ; 
To  him  uplifts  the  yearnings  of  his  soul ; 
And  where  the  day-beam  on  the  snow-peak  plays, 
And  where  the  thunders  o'er  the.  desert  roll, 

His  praise  goes  swelling  up,  and  rings  from  pole 
to  pole. 

His  Spirit  animates  the  lowliest  flower, 
And  nerves  the  sinews  of  the  loftiest  sphere, 
In  every  globule  of  the  falling  shower, 
In  each  transition  of  the  varied  year, 
Its  life,  and  light,  and  wondrous  power  appear; 
It  burns  all-glorious  in  the  noonday  sun, 
And  from  the  moonbeams  forth  serenely  clear; 
Or,  when  the  day  is  o'er,  and  eve  begun, 
Flin-s  forth  the  radiant  flag  no  other  god  hath  won. 

All  hail,  Jehovah  !     Hail,  supremest  God  ! 
Where'er  the  whirlwind  stalks  upon  the  seas, 
Where'er  the  giant  thunderbolt  hath  trod, 
Or  turned  a  furrow  for  the  summer  breeze, 
Where  liquid  cities  round  Spitzbergen  freeze, 
And  lift  their  ice-spires  to  the  electric  light, 
Or  soft  Italian  skies  and  flowering  trees 
Their  balmy  odors  and  bright  hues  unite — 
There  art  thou,  LOUD  of  LOVE,  unrivalled  in  thy 
might. 


SARAH   E.   MAYO. 


Praise,  praise  to  thee  from  every  breathing  thing, 
And  from  the  temples  of  adoring  hearts 
Science  to  thee  her  sky-reaped  fruits  shall  bring, 
And  Commerce  rear  thine  altars  in  her  marts. 
Thou  shalt  be  worshipped  of  the  glorious  Arts, 
And  sought  by  Wisdom  in  her  dim  retreat ; 
The  student,  brooding  o'er  his  mystic  charts, 
Shall  mark  the  track  of  thy  starsandalled  feet,  [seat, 
Till,  through  the  zodiac  traced,  it  mounts  thy  mercy,  j 


Praise,praise  to  Jliee  from  peaceful  home  and  hearth, 
From -hearts  of  humble  hope  and  meek  desire; 
Praise  from  the  lowly  and  the  high  of  earth, 
From  palace-hall  and  frugal  cottage-fire. 
We  can  not  lift  our  spirit-yearnings  higher, 
Nor  speed  them  upward  to  a  loftier  goal : 
Then  let  us  each  with  fervent  thoughts  aspire 
To  cast  aside  the  chain  of  earth's  control,        [soul. 
And  stand  in.  God's  own  light, communers  with  God's 


THE  LAST  LAY. 

'Tis  the  last  touch — the  last!  and  never  more 

By  the  low-singing  stream,  or  violet  dell, 
Never  beside  the  blue  pond's  grassy  shore, 

Nor  in  the  woodlands  where  the  fountains  swell, 
Oh,  never  more  shall  this  wild  harp  resound 

To  the  light  touches  of  impulsive  Thought! 
No  longer,  echoed  on  the  winds  around, 

Shall  float  those  strains  with  hum  an  passion  fraught; 

Never,  oh,  never  more  ! 
'Tis  the  last  touch  !     Oh,  mighty  Thought,  return 

To  thy  deep,  hidden  fountains,  and  draw  thence 
Wordsthatthro'all  the  heart'slonedepthsshall  burn; 

Words,  that  inwrought  with  hope  and  love  intense, 
Shall  thrill  and  shake  the  soul,  as  God's  own  voice 

Shakes  the  high  heavens  and  thrills  the  silent  earth. 
Bring  forth  proud  words  of  triumph,  and  rejoice 

That  thy  dear  gift  of  song  a  holier  birth 

Shall  find,  when  this  is  o'er ! 
Too  much  in  earlier  days,  departing  soul, 

Thy  song  hath  been  of  weakness  and  of  tears; 
Too  much  it  yielded  to  the  wild  control 

Of  Love's  unuttered  dreams  and  shadowy  fears ; 
And  yet  some  strains  of  triumph  have  been  heard, 

Some  words  of  faith  and  hope  that  reached  high 
As  the  low  warble  of  the  summer  bird,   [Heaven  ; 

Singing  away  the  hours  of  golden  even,    ' 

Blends  with  the  cascade's  roar ! 
Let  it  be  loftier  now !   a  strain  to  cleave 

The  vaulted  arch  above;  a  hymn  of  hope, 
Of  joy,  of  deathless  faith,  for  those  who  grieve; 

High  words  of  trust  to  fearful  hearts  that  grope 
Through  clouds  and  darkness  to  a  midnight  tomb. 

Father  of  Love,  thine  energy  impart 
To  a  frail  spirit  hovering  o'er  its  doom  ! 

Nerve  with  o'ermasteriug  faith  this  weary  heart 

Thy  mysteries  to  explore. 
If  T  have  suffered  in  the  mournful  past ; 

If  withered  hopes  were  on  my  spirit  laid ; 
If  love,  the  beautiful,  the  bright,  were  cast 

Along  my  pathway  but  to  droop  and  fade ; 
If  the  chill  shadows  of  the  grave  were  hung 

In  life's  young  morning  o'er  my  sunny  way — 
I  thank  thee,  O  my  God,  that  I  have  clung 


To  those  eternal  things  that  ne'er  decay; 

E'en  to  thy  love  and  truth  ! 

Now  on  the  threshold  of  the  grave  I  stand, 

One  lingering  look  alone  cast  back  to  earth ; 

One  lingering  look  to  that  beloved  land 
WThere  human  feeling  had  its  tearful  birth ; 

There  stand  the  loved,  with  earnest  eyes  and  words, 

Calling  me  back  to  life's  sweet  gushing  streams ; 
They  stand  amid  the  flowers  and  singing  birds, 

And  where  the  fountai  n  o'er  the  bright  moss  gleams, 
All  flushed  with  buoyant  youth. 
They  woo  me  back.     I  see  their  soft  eyes  melt 

W^ith  a  beseeching  love  that  speaks  in  tears; 
Deeply  their  sorrowing  kindness  have  I  felt, 

And  hid  my  pangs,  that  I  might  soothe  their  fears. 
But  now  the  seal  is  set — they  can  not  save; 

In  vain  they  hover  round  this  wasting  frame: 
Let  me  rest,  loved  ones,  in  the  peaceful  grave, 

And  leave  to  earth  the  little  it  may  claim ; 
It  can  not  claim  the  soul ! 
Nay,  gentle  friends,  earth  can  not  claim  the  soul 

Upward  arid  onward  its  bold  flight  shall  be; 
The  bosom  of  Eternal  Love  its  goal, 

And  light  its  crown,  and  bliss  its  destiny. 
As  the  bright  meteor  darts  along  the  sky, 

Leaving  a  trail  of  beauty  on  its  way, 
So,  winged  with  energy  that  can  not  die, 

My  soul  shall  reach  the  gates  of  endless  day, 
And  bid  them  backward  roll. 
In  vain,  0  Death,  thine  iron  grasp  is  set 

On  nerves  that  quiver  with  delirious  pain  ; 
Claim  not  thy  triumph  o'er  the  spirit  yet, 

For  thou  shalt  die,  but  that  shall  live  again. 
And  thou,  0  Sorrow,  that  with  whetted  beak 

Hast  torn  the  fibres  of  a  fervent  heart, 
Thy  final  doom  is  riot  for  me  to  speak, 

Yet  thou,  too,  from  thy  carnage  must  depart, 

For  God  recalls  his  own. 
His  OWN  ! — O  Father,  mid  the  budding  flowers 

And  glittering  dews  of  life's  unclouded  morn, 
Where  there  is  thrilling  music  in  the  hours 

Of  gentle  hopes  and  young  affections  born, 
Through  all  its  wanderings  from  thy  holy  throne, 

Through  all  its  loiterings  mid  the  haunts  of  Joy, 
Hath  my  frail  spirit  been  indeed  thine  own, 

By  ties  that  Time  nor  Death  can  e'er  destroy — 

Thine,  Father,  thine  alone ! 
Shall  it  not  still  be  thine,  more  nobly  thine, 

When  from  the  ruins  of  young  Hope  it  soars, 
And,  entering  into  life  and  peace  divine, 

Feels  the  full  worth  of  what  it  now  deplores? 
No  sorrows  there  shall  stain  its  gushing  springs ; 

No  human  frai  ties  cloud  its  joyous  way; 
The  bird  that  soars  on  renovated  wings, 

And  bathes  its  crest  where  dawns  the  golden  day, 

Shall  be  less  tree  and  pure. 
And  more  than  this:   with  vision  all  serene, 

Undimmed  by  tears,  and  bounded  not  by  clouds, 
With  naught  thy  goodness  and  its  gaze  between, 

And  where  no  mystery  thy  purpose  shrouds, 
The  soul,  the  glorious  soul,  in  works  of  IOVK, 

Shall  seek,  and  only  seek,  to  do  thy  will ; 
Highborn  and  holy  shall  its  efforts  prove, 

Thy  bright  designs  and  glory  to  fulfil, 

While  thou  and  thine  endure 


300 


SARAH   E.   MAYO. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  DEATH-SCENE. 

OXK  parting  glance  the  weary  day-god  throws  ; 

See  how  along  the  mountain  ridge  it  glows, 

Shoots  through  the  forest  aisles,  transmutes  the  rills, 

And  kindles  up  the  old  rock-crested  hills ! 

It  falls  upon  a  peaceful  woodland  scene — 

It  lights  the  moaning  hrook  and  banks  of  green, 

Streams  o'er  the  beggar's  long,  loose,  silvery  hair, 

Who,  dying,  lies  upon  the  greensward  there ! 

All  day  in  weakness,  weariness,  and  pain, 
The  old  man  'neath  those  drooping  boughs  hath  lain ; 
The  birds  above  him  singing,  and  the  breeze 
Hustling  the  abundant  foliage  of  the  trees; 
The  wild-flowers  o'er  him  bending,  and  the  air 
Stroking  with  gentle  touch  his  long  white  hair ; 
The  bees  around  him  murmuring,  and  the  stream 
Mingling  its  music  with  his  dying  dream 

A  vision  blessed  him  !     Through  his  silver  hair 
He  felt  the  touch  of  fingers,  soft  and  fair, 
And  o'er  him  flowed  the  glory  of  an  eye 
Outshining  all  the  b!ueness  of  the  sky. 
"  Sweet,  sainted  One!  and  dost  thou  love  me  yet  1 
I  knew,  I  knew  thou  couldst  not  quite  forget ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  come  at  last, 
To  kiss  my  lips  and  tell  me  all  is  past !" 

A  glow  of  tiarisport  lit  his  closing  eye; 
He  raised  his  arms  exulting  toward  the  sky; 
A  rosy  tint  like  morning's  earliest  streak 
Flushed  in  celestial  softness  o'er  his  ch^ek, 
Then  paled  away  ;  the  sunbeam,  too,  that  shone 
Upon  his  reverend  head,  had  softly  gone. 
Then  stooped  the  Vision,  clasped  him  to  her  breast, 
And  bore  his  spirit  up  to  endless  rest 


TYPES  OF  HEAVEN. 

WHY  love  I  the  lily-bell 
Swinging  in  the  scented  dell? 
Why  love  I  the  wood-notes  wild, 
Where  the  sun  hath  faintly  smiled  ] 
Daises,  in  their  beds  secure, 
Gazing  out  so  meek  and  pure  ] 

Why  love  I  the  evening  dew 
In  the  violet's  bell  of  blue] 
Why  love  I  the  vesper  star, 
Trembling  in  its  shrine  afar  ? 
Why  love  I  the  summer  night 
Softly  weeping  drops  of  light  ] 

Why  to  me  do  woodland  springs 
Whisper  sweet  and  holy  things] 
Why  does  every  bed  of  moss 
Tell  me  of  my  Savior's  cross] 
Why  in  every  dimpled  wave 
Smiles  the  light  from  o'er  the  grave  1 
Why  do  rainbows,  seen  at  even, 
Seem  the  glorious  paths  to  heaven  1 
Why  are  gushing  streamlets  fraught 
With  the  notes  from  angels  caught] 
Uan  ye  tell  me  why  the  wind 
Uringeth  seraphs  to  mv  mind  ] 


Is  it  not  that  faith  hath  bound 
Beauties  of  all  form  and  sound 
To  the  dreams  that  have  been  jjiven 
Of  the  holy  things  of  heaven  ] 
Are  they  not  bright  links  that  bind 
Sinful  souls  to  Sinless  Mind  ] 

From  the  lowly  violet  sod, 
Links  are  lengthened  unto  God. 
All  of  holy — stainless — sweet — 
That  on  earth  we  hear  or  meet, 
Are  but  tvpes  of  that  pure  love 
Brightly  realized  above. 


THE  SHADOW-CHILD. 

WHENCE  came  this  little  phantom 

That  flits  about  my  room — 
That's  here  from  early  morning 

Until  the  twilight  gloom  ] 
For  ever  dancing,  dancing, 

She  haunts  the  wall  and  floor, 
And  frolics  in  the  sunshine 

Around  the  open  door. 
The  ceiling  by  the  table 

She  makes  her  choice  retreat 
For  there  a  little  human  girl 

Is  wont  to  have  her  seat. 
They  take  a  dance  together — 

A  crazy  little  jig; 
And  sure  two  baby  witches 

Ne'er  ran  so  wild  a  rig ! 

They  pat  their  hands  together 

With  frantic  jumps  and  springs, 
Until  you  almost  fancy 

You  catch  the  gleam  of  wings. 
Shrill  shrieks  the  human  baby 

In  the  madness  of  delight, 
And  back  return  loud  echoes 

From  the  little  shadow  sprite. 

At  morning  by  my  bedside 

When  first  the  birdies  sing, 
Up  starts  the  little  phantom 

With  a  merry  laugh  and  spring. 
She  woos  me  from  my  pillow 

With  her  little  coaxing  arms ; 
I  go  where'er  she  beckons — 

A  victim  to  her  charms. 

At  night  I  still  am  haunted 

By  glimpses  of  her  face; 
Her  features  on  my  pillow 

By  moonlight  I  can  trace. 
Whence  came  this  shadow-baby 

That  haunts  my  heart  and  home  1 
What  kindly  hand  hath  sent  her, 

And  wherefore  hath  she  come  I 

Long  be  her  dancing  image 

Our  guest  by  night  and  day. 
For  lonely  were  our  dwelling 

If  she  were  now  away. 
Far  happier  hath  our  home  been, 

More  blest  than  e'er  before, 
Since  first  that  little  shadow 

Came  gliding  through  our  door. 


SARAH   C.  MAYO. 


301 


UDOLLO. 

So  sweet  the  fount  of  Thura  sings, 

'T  is  said  below  a  maid  there  is, 
Who  strikes  a  lyre  of  silver  strings 

To  spirit  symphonies. 

A  youth  once  sought  that  fountain's  sidf 

Udollo,  of  the  golden  hair ; 
He  cast  a  garland  in  the  tide. 

And  thus  invoked  the  maiden  there: 

"  Oh,  maid  of  Thura  !  from  thy  halls 

Of  gleaming  crystal  deign  to  rise  ! 
The  golden-haired  Udollo  calls, 

And  yearns  to  gaze  within  thine  eyes 
Fain  would  he  touch  that  magic  lyre 

Whose  echoes  he  has  heard  above, 
And  kindle  every  dulcet  wire 

With  an  adoring,  burning  love. 
Come,  maid  of  Thura,  from  thy  halls; 
The  golden-haired  Udollo  calls !" 

"  Youth  of  the  flaming,  lucent  eye, 
Youth  of  the  lily  hand  and  brow, 

Udollo  !   I  have  heard  thy  cry  ; 
I  rise  before  thee  now  !" 

"  Oh,  maid  with  eyes  of  river-blue, 

With  amber  tresses  dropped  with  gold, 
With  foam-white  bosom  veiled  from  view 

Too  close'y  by  the  rainbow's  fold, 
Oh,  maid  of  Thura !  let  my  hand 

Receive  from  thine  the  silver  lyre ; 
Athwart  thy  white  arm,  Tris-spanned, 

1  see  one  glittering,  trembling  wire ! 
That  trembling  wire  I  would  invoke, 

Ere  to  thy  touch  it  cease  to  quiver ; 
The  strain  by  thy  sweet  fingers  woke 

I  would  prolong' for  ever!" 

"  Udollo,  heed  !     The  mortal  hand 

That  o'er  that  lone  chord  dare  to  stray, 
Shall  light  a  flaming,  quenchless  brand, 

To  burn  his  very  heart  away. 
Yet  take  the  lyre  !  and  I  thy  flowers 

Will  wear  upon  my  heart  for  ever; 
That  heart  henceforth  through  long,  lone  hours, 

In  silent  wo  must  bleed  and  quiver! 
Enough  if  thou,  oh,  beauteous  love, 

Shalt  find  delight  in  Thura's  lyre ; 
Thy  hand  mid  all  its  strings  may  rove, 

But  ah  !  wake  not  the  fatal  wire  !" 

The  youth,  whose  eye  with  rapture  glowed, 

Quick  seized  the  lyre  from  Thura's  hand  ; 
How  silent  at  that  moment  flowed 

The  fountain  o'er  the  listening  sand ! 
Upon  his  coal-black  steed  he  leaped, 

Struck  gayly  through  the  ringing  wood, 
And,  as  he  went,  he  boldly  swept 

His  lyre  to  every  passing  mood. 
But  hark  !     A  low,  sweet  symphony 

Rose  softly  from  the  charmed  wire  ; 
Unlike  all  mortal  harmony, 

Unlike  all  human  fire! 
Hope,  eager  hope — love,  burning  love  — 

Desire,  the  pure,  the  high  desire — 
And  joy,  and  all  the  thoughts  that  move, 


Gushed  wildly  from  that  lyre ! 
And  as  Udollo's  music  died 

Amid  the  columned  aisles  away, 
That  wondrous  chord  swelled  far  and  wide 

Its  sweet  and  ravishing  lay. 
Still  grew,  at  last,  the  trembling  string — 

Its  wandering  echoes  back  returned, 
And  round  the  lone  chord  gathering 

In  visible  glory  burned. 

But  in  Udollo's  soul  died  not 

The  echoes  of  the  golden  strain  : 
A  love — a  wo — he  knew  not  what, 

Flamed  up  within  his  brain ; 
But  never  more  his  hand  could  wake, 

By  roving  mid  its  sister  wires, 
The  string  whose  symphony  could  shake 

His  spirit  to  its  central  fires. 

But  sometimes  when,  all  calm  above, 

The  moon  bent  o'er  its  gleaming  strings, 
A  strain  of  soft,  entrancing  love 

Waved  o'er  him,  like  a  seraph's  wings ; 
And  sometimes  when  the  midnight  gloom 

Allowed  no  wandering  ray  of  light, 
A  deep,  low  music  filled  the  room, 

And  almost  flamed  upon  his  sight. 

And  for  this  rare  and  fitful  strain 

He  waited  with  intense  desire ; 
There  centred,  in  delirious  pain, 

His  spirit's  all-devouring  fire. 
As  round  one  glowing  point  on  high, 

We  sometimes  mark  the  electric  light, 
From  the  whole  bosom  of  the  sky, 

In  one  bright,  flaming  crown  unite, 
So  round  that  inward,  fixed  desire, 

Concentred  all  Udollo's  life  ; 
His  dark  eye  glowed  like  molten  fire, 

Beneath  the  fevered  strife. 

One  night,  when  long  the  lyre  had  slept, 

Udollo's  passion,  like  a  sea 
Of  red-hot  lava,  madly  swept 

His  soul  on  to  its  destiny. 
In  the  deep  blackness  of  that  hour 

When  spectres  walk,  he  seized  the  lyre, 
And  with  a  seraph's  tuneful  power 

Awoke  the  tuneful  wire  ! 
Oh,  Thura's  maid  !  where  wert  thou  then, 

When  mortal  hand  presumed  to  strike 
The  chords  that  only  gods,  not  men, 

Have  power  to  waken  as  they  like  ? 

A  fire  shot  through  Udollo's  frame 

As  shoots  the  lightning's  forked  dart ; 
It  lit  a  hot  and  smothered  flame 

Within  his  deepest  heart. 
He  felt  it  in  its  slow,  sure  path, 

Consume  his  quivering  nerves  away ; 
Oh,  could  he  but  have  checked  its  wrath, 

Or  ceased  that  fearful  strain  to  play  ! 
His  fingers,  cleaving  to  the  wire, 

Had  lost  communion  with  his  will; 
Within  him  burnt  the  immortal  fire, 

The  heart,  the  life  destroyer  still ' 

^ays,  weeks,  and  months,  whirled  on  and  on 
No  hope  by  day,  nor  rest  by  night  • 


302 


SARAH    C.   MAYO. 


Only  the  same  wild,  frantic  tone, 

Increasing  in  its  woful  might. 
Intensely  still,  like  lonely  stars 

Far  off  in  some  black  crypt  of  sky, 
Like  Sirius,  or  like  fiery  Mars, 

Glowed  wild  Udollo's  eye. 
His  form  to  shadowy  hue  and  line 

Slow  shrunk  and  faded,  day  by  day ; 
He  seemed  like  some  corroded  shrine, 

Eaten  by  liquid  fire  away. 

At  last,  in  utter  wreck  and  wo, 

Back  to  the  fountain's  brink  he  crept; 

His  golden  hair,  now  white  as  snow, 
Far  down  his  bosom  swept. 

Silent  the  clouded  waters  flowed  ; 

The  silver  sand  was  washed  away ; 
No  lily  on  its  borders  blowed ; 

In  lonely  gloom  it  lay. 

"  Oh,  maid  of  Thura  !  hear  my  cry  ; 

Back  to  thy  hands  thy  lyre  I  bring : 
Take  it,  oh,  take  it,  ere  I  (lie, 

For  heart  and  soul  are  perishing  !" 

No  form  uprose,  no  murmur  stole 

Responsive  from  the  gloomy  tide ; 
Hoarsely  he  heard  the  waters  roll ; 

Faintly  the  low  winds  sighed. 
He  sank  upon  the  fountain's  brink; 

His  hand  fell  listless  on  the  wave ; 
He  heard  the  lyre,  slow  bubbling,  sink 

Deej)  in  its  liquid  grave. 

The  fire  went  out  within  his  breast; 

The  tremor  of  his  nerves  was  still ; 
As  peacefully  he  sank  to  rest 

As  a  tired  infant  will. 

A  radiant  bow  of  sun  and  dew, 

Of  blended  vapors,  white  and  red, 
Up  from  the  fountain's  bosom  flew, 

And  hung  its  beauty  o'er  his  head. 
And  from  the  waves  a  strain  uprose, 

Delicious  as  an  angel's  song ; 
And  this  the  burden  at  its  close  : 
"  How  sweet  such  dreamless,  deep  repose 

To  him  who  sins  and  suffers  Ion"- !" 


CROSSING  THE  MOOR. 

I  AM  thinking  of  the  glen,  Johnny, 

And  the  little  gushing  brook — 
Of  the  birds  upon  the  hazel  copsej 

And  violets  in  the  nook. 
I  am  thinking  how  we  met,  Johnny, 

Upon  the  little  bridge  : 
\  ou  had  a  garland  on  your  arm 

Of  flag-flowera  and  of  sedge. 
Vou  placed  it  in  my  hand,  Johnny, 

And  held  my  hand  in  yours; 
tfou  only  thought  of  that,  Johnny, 

But  talked  about  the  flower;-. 
We  lingered  Ions  a'one,  Johnny, 

Above  mat  shaded  stream; 
We  stood  as  though  we  were  entranced 

In  some  delicious  drea;n. 


It  was  not  all  a  dream,  Johnny, 

The  love  we  thought  of  then, 
For  it  hath  been  our  life  and  light 

For  threescore  years  and  ten. 
But  ah  !   we  dared  not  speak  it, 

Though  it  lit  our  cheeks  and  eyes; 
So  we  talked  about  the  news,  Johnny, 

The  weather,  and  the  skies. 
At  last  I  said,  "  Good  night,  Johnny  !" 

And  turned  to  cross  the  bridge, 
Still  holding  in  my  trembling  hand 

The  pretty  wreath  of  sedge. 
But  you  ca:i.e  on  behind,  Johnny, 

And  drew  my  arm  in  yours, 
And  said,  '•  You  must  not  go  alone 

Across  the  barren  moors." 
Oh,  had  they  been  all  flowers,  Johnny, 

And  fu'l  of  singing  birds, 
They  could  not  have  seemed  fairer 

Than  when  listening  to  those  words ! 
The  new  moon  shone  above,  Johnny, 
.    The  sun  was  nearly  set ; 
The  grass  that  crisped  beneath  our  feet 

The  dew  had  slightly  wet : 
One  robin,  late  abroad,  Johnny, 

Was  winging  to  its  nest ; 
I  seem  to  see  it  now,  Johnny, 

The  sunshine  on  its  breast. 
You  put  your  arm  around  me, 

You  clasped  my  hand  in  yours, 
You  said,  "  So  let  me  guard  you 

Across  these  lonely  moors." 
At  length  we  reached  the  field,  Johnny, 

In  sight  of  father's  door ; 
We  felt  that  we  must  part  there ; 

Our  eyes  were  brimming  o'er; 
You  saw  the  tears  in  mine,  Johnny, 

I  saw  the  tears  in  yours : 
"You've  been  a  faithful  guard,  Johnny," 

I  said,  "across  the  moors." 
Then  you  broke  forth  in  a  gush,  Johnny, 

Of  pure  and  honest  love, 
While  the  moon  looked  down  upon  you 

From  her  holy  throne  above, 
And  you  said,  "  We  need  a  guide,  Ellen, 

To  lead  us  o'er  life's  moors ; 
I've  chosen  you  for  mine,  Ellen, 

Oh,  wou'd  that  I  were  yours !" 
We  parted  with  a  kiss,  Johnny, 

The  first,  but  not  the  last ; 
I  feel  the  rapture  of  it,  yet. 

Though  threescore  years  have  passed; 
And  you  kissed  my  golden  curls,  Johnny, 

That  now  are  si: very  gray, 
And  whispered,  ••  \Vc  are  one,  Ellen, 

Until  our  dying  day  !" 
That  dying  day  is  near,  Johnny, 

But  we  are  not  dismayed  ; 
WTe  have  but  one  dark  moor  to  cross, 

We  need  we  be  afraid  ? 
We've  had  a  hard  life's  row.  Johnny, 

But  our  heavenly  rest  is  sure; 
And  sweet  the  love  that  waits  us  there, 

When  we  have  crossed  the  moor ! 


SARAH    S.    JACOBS. 


Miss  JACOBS  is  a  native  of  Rhode  Island, 
and  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  Bela  Ja 
cobs,  a  prominent  Baptist  clergyman.  She 
has  recently  resided  at  Cambridgeport,  in 
Massachusetts.  Her  poems  are  serious  and 


fanciful,  and  evince  cultivation  and  taste. 
Benedetta  is  one  of  her  happiest  composi 
tions,  and  it  is  characteristic  of  her  most 
usual  tone  and  manner.  There  is  no  collec 
tion  of  her  writings. 


THE  CHANGELESS  WORLD. 


of  old  ti 


"—  Solomo 


It  hath  been  already 

that  this  world  changes  not;  that  still 

Its  beauty  and  its  sorrows  are  the  same  ; 
Ever  the  torrent  seems  to  wear  the  hill, 

And  the  sun  dries  the  torrent      But  I  came  — 
The  hill  was  there,  nor  was  the  torrent  tame, 
But,  sparkling  cooler  down  the  mountain-side, 

For  that  it  scorned  the  great  sun's  thirsty  flame, 
Its  eager  tusk  continually  it  plied, 
While  swelled  the  lofty  hill  in  unabated  pride. 
The  forest-trees  are  transient  things  and  frail  ; 

(So  the  book  to'.d  me,  ere  I  closed  the  page  ;) 
Last  year  the  willow-leaves  were  wan  and  pale  : 

I  '11  make  to  their  last  place  a  pilgrimage, 

And  changed,  dead  trees  shall  read  a  lesson  sage 
Of  change  and  death.     No  paler  than  before 

I  found  the  willow-leaves,  nor  sign  of  age 
Within  t'.ie  woods  ;  immortal  green  they  wore, 
And  the  strong,  mighty  roots  the  giant  trunks  up 

bore. 
The  rock  endureth  with  its  mantle  mossy, 

Nature's  soft  velvet  for  the  poor  man's  tread  ; 
The  grass  abideth  tapering  and  g'ossy. 

And  from  the  butterfly  you  thought  was  dead, 

Lo  !   not  a  grain  of  shining  dust  is  fled. 
But  clouds,  and  snows,  and  subtle  harmonies, 

And  western  winds  with  dewy  perfumes  fed, 
And  shadows  and  their  twins,  realities, 
And  fickle  human  hearts  —  sure  there  is  change  in 

these. 
The  gentle  air  fanned  Sappho's  fevered  cheek, 

That  seems  its  virgin  kiss  to  breathe  on  mine  ; 
That  cloud  is  not  new-born  :  its  roseate  streak 

Decked  a  sweet  sunset  in  fair  Palestine, 

When  Abram's  Sarah  'neath  the  shadowing  pine, 
Watching  its  glories,  showed  them  to  her  lord, 

That  night  the  beaming  messengers  divine 
Came  dawn,  and  Heaven  sat  at  earthly  board, 
Gladdening  the  patriarch's  heart  with  high  prophetic 

word. 
Wears  not  the  sky  the  vaulted  majesty 

That  greatly  circled  greater  Homer's  brow] 
And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  sleepy  sea 

Soothed  Dante's  soul  of  storms.     The  heavens 
allow 


No  novel  splendors.     Every  star  that  now 
Looks  miracles  of  beauty,  in  intense 

And  steely  radiance,  saw  the  Chaldee  bow; 
The  princely,  poet  heart,  whose  finer  sense 
Thrilled  nightly  the  Pleiades'  sweet  influence. 

But  sun,  and  cloud,  river,  and  tree,  and  stream, 

Rock,  wind,  and  mountain — earth,  and  sea,  and 
Ephemeral  things,  and  perishable  seem     [heaven, 

To  the  strong  human  nature  God  has  given. 

The  breast  that  fired  man  first — the  wondrous 

leaven 
That  makes  "  red  clay"  lord  of  its  kindred  earth, 

Immortal  in  its  essence,  lasteth  even 
As  He  lasts  whose  great  impulse  sent  it  forth : 
There  is  no  change  in  man  since  the  first  man  had 
birth. 

For  youthful  lovers  still  in  paradise 

Walk  hand  in  hand,  like  those  of  early  day; 
Till  the  stern-missioned  angel  shall  arise, 

The  vision  and  the  music  pass  away. 

The  heart's  short  summer  gone,  no  effort  may 
In  festive  pomp  of  dewy  fruit  and  flowers 

The  frost-struck  and  the  faded  world  array. 
Self-exiled  are  we,  too,  from  Eden's  bowers, 
And   Adam's  wanderings    and   Eve's  woes    are 
ours. 

Still  for  her  infant  children  Rachel  weeps ; 

Still  sighs  sad  Ruth  "  amid  the  alien  corn  ;" 
Still  Aiah's  daughter  generous  vigils  keeps; 

The  sire  still  hails  his  prodigal's  return ; 

Still  Peter's  soul  with  penitence  is  torn. 
Humanity  has  lost  no  grief  nor  joy  : 

Partings  are  painful  now  as  on  the  morn. 
When  Hector  bade,  upon  the  walls  of  Troy, 
Andromache   farewell,    and   kissed   his  blooming 
boy. 

To  meet  is  bliss,  as  when,  beside  old  Nile, 

Joseph  his  soul  of  tenderness  outpoured  ; 
Still  Stephen  dies  with  calm,  forgiving  smile, 

Still  radiant  Esther  braves  her  tvrant  lord. 

No  change,  no  change !  Upon  the  self-same  cnoul 
Life's  overture  is  played ;  life's  pattern  wrought 

In  the  same  figures — wearisome,  abhorred. 
"Butwe  shall  allbechang'd."  Such  sounds  Icaught. 
And  blessed  both  Tarsus  and  Damascus  in  my 
thought 

30.T 


304 


SARAH   S.  JACOBS. 


BENEDETTA. 

Br  an  old  fountain  once  at  day's  decline 
We  stood.     The  winged  breezes  made 

Short  flights  melodious  through  the  lowering  vine, 
The  lindens  flung  a  golden,  glimmering  shade, 

And  the  old  fountain  played. 

I  a  stern  stranger — a  sweet  maiden  she, 

And  beautiful  as  her  own  Italy. 

At  length  she  smiled ;  her  smile  the  silence  broke, 

And  my  heart  finding  language,  thus  it  spoke  ; 

"  Whenever  Benedetta  moves, 

Motion  then  all  Nature  loves  • 
WThen  Benedetta  is  at  rest, 

Quietness  appeareth  best. 
She  makes  me  dream  of  pleasant  things, 

Of  the  young  corn  growing; 
Of  butterflies'  transparent  wings 

In  the  sunbeams  rowing ; 
Of  the  summer  dawn 

Into  daylight  sliding; 
Of  Dian's  favorite  fawn 

Among  laurels  hiding; 
Of  a  movement  in  the  tops 

Of  the  most  impulsive  trees; 
Of  cool,  glittering  drops 

God's  gracious  rainbow  sees  ; 
Of  pale  moons  ;  of  saints 

Chanting  anthems  holy ; 
Of  a  cloud  that  faints 

In  evening  slowly ; 
Of  a  bird's  song  in  a  grove , 

Of  a  rosebud's  love ; 
Of  a  lily's  stem  and  leaf; 

Of  dew-silvered  meadows; 
Of  a  child's  first  grief; 

Of  soft-floating  shadows ; 
Of  the  violet's  breath 

To  the  moist  wind  given ; 
Of  early  death 

And  heaven." 

I  ceased  :  the  maiden  did  not  stir, 

Nor  speak,  nor  raise  her  bended  head ; 
And  the  green  vines  enfoliaged  her, 

And  the  old  fountain  played. 
Then  from  the  church  beyond  the  trees 

Chimed  the  bells  to  evening  prayer : 

Fervent  the  devotions  were 
Of  Benedetta  on  her  knees ; 
And  when  her  prayer  was  over, 

A  most  spiritual  air 

Her  whole  form  invested, 

As  if  God  did  love  her, 
And  his  smile  still  rested 

On  her  white  robe  and  flesh, 

So  innocent  and  fresh — 

Touching  where'er  it  fell 

With  a  glory  visible. 

She  smiled,  and  crossed  horself,  and  smiled  again 
Upor<  the  heretic's  sincere  "  Amen  !" 

"  Buona  notte,"  soft  she  said  or  sung 

ft  was  the  same  on  that  sweet  southern  tongue — 
And  passed.     I  blessed  the  faultless  face, 
All  m  composed  gentleness  arrayed; 


Then  took  farewell  of  the  secluded  place : 

And  the  tall  lindens  flung  a  glimmering  shade, 
And  the  old  fountain  played. 

And  this  was  spring.     In  the  autumnal  weather, 
One  golden  afternoon  I  wandered  thither; 
And  to  the  vineyards,  as  I  passed  along, 
Murmured  this  fragment  of  a  broken  song: 
"  I  know  a  peasant  girl  serene — 

What  though  her  home  doth  lowly  lie  ! 
The  woods  do  homage  to  their  queen, 
The  streams  flow  reverently  nigh 
Benedetta,  Benedetta ! 

"  Her  eyes  the  deep,  delicious  blue 
The  stars  and  I  love  to  look  through ; 
Her  voice  the  low,  bewildering  tone, 
Soft  winds  and  she  have  made  their  own— 
Benedetta,  Benedetta !" 

She  was  not  by  the  fountain — but  a  band 
Of  the  fair  daughters  of  that  sunny  land. 
Weeping  they  were,  and  as  they  wept  they  threw 
Flowers  on  a  grave.     Then  suddenly  I  knew 
Of  Benedetta  dead : 

And,  weeping  too 

O'er  beauty  perished, 

Awhile  with  her  companions  there  I  stood, 
Then  turned  and  went  back  to  my  solitude ; 
And  the  tall  lindens  flung  a  glimmering  shade. 

And  the  old  fountain  played. 


A  VESPER. 

SEREXEST  Evening  !  whether  fall 

In  arrowy  gold  thy  sunset  beams, 
Or  dimmer  radiance  maketh  all 

Like  landscapes  seen  in  dreams. 
I  joy  apart  with  thee  to  walk, 
I  joy  alone  with  thee  to  talk. 
Writh  speech  is  thy  clear  blue  endowed, 
Thine  archipelagoes  of  cloud  ; 
Of  sweetest  music  and  most  rare 
I  hear  the  utterances  there, 
And  nightly  does  my" being  rise 
To  fonder  converse  with  thy  skies. 
Then  from  thy  mists  my  home  I  date, 
Or,  with  thy  tires  incorporate, 
Am  lightly  to  the  zenith  swinging, 

Or  pouring  glory  on  the  woods, 
Or  through  some  cottage  window  flinging 

The  sunset's  blessed  floods. 
Mine  is  the  beauty  of  the  hour — 
All  mine — if  I  confess  its  power. 

Behold  the  vast  an  iy  of  tents 

For  me  to  sentinel  to-night ! 
An  instant — this  magnificence 

Has  faded  out  of  sight. 
The  tents  are  struck,  the  warriors'  march 
Subsides  along  the  stately  arch. 
I  saw  the  sword  their  leader  drew 

Beneath  the  banner's  crimson  edge  : 
'T  was  lightning  to  the  common  view, 

To  me  a  solemn  pledge 
Unbroken  as  the  smile  of  Him 
Who  rules  those  cloudy  cherubim. 


SARAH    S.   JACOBS. 


The  sun,  his  mirrored  smile,  not  yet 

Upon  the  loving  earth  has  set. 

Happy  in  his  caressing  fb'd, 

The  cottage  roofs  are  domes  of  gold. 

To  sip  the  misty  surf  he  stoops ; 

OnUirios  of  light  he  scoops 

In  sombrest  turf,  and  still  for  me 

.Alone  his  shining  seems  to  be : 

Aline  are  his  thousand  rays  that  hum, 

I  love  and  I  appropriate ; 
Who  loves  enough  creates  reiurn, 

Nor  can  be  isolate. 


UBI  AMOR,  1BI  FIDES. 

"  ALL  faith  from  human  hearts  is  fled," 

I  to  that  gentle  lady  said  ; 

"  Faith  is  an  idle  dream,  I  see, 

I'll  trust  in  none,  none  trusteth  me!" 

And  I  was  moody,  she  was  still ; 

Our  souls  were  out  of  tune, 
Because  I  spoke  such  words  of  ill 

That  summer  afternoon. 
My  lonely  heart  felt  sick  and  weak — 
The  gentle  lady  did  not  speak. 

So  silently  the  path  we  took 
Along  the  common,  by  the  brook, 
And  walked  together  on  the  shore, 
As  we  had  often  walked  before  ; 
The  sky  was  fair,  the  sands  were  white- 
Smooth  flowed  the  silvery  sea  : 
I  watched  the  snowy  sea-gulls'  flight, 

And  so  perhaps  did  she, 
As  in  the  sunshine's  parting  glow 
The  fair  things  sparkled  to  and  fro. 

Methought  I  heard  the  ocean  moan, 
In  sorrow  to  be  left  alone ; 
And  I  rejoiced  that  sea  and  sky 
Should  be  bereaved  as  well  as  I. 
Our  homeward  path  we  could  not  miss, 

Along  a  narrow  ledge. 
And  by  a  beetling  precipice 

Close  to  the  water's  edge — 
A  hoary  eminence  and  gray, 
Familiar  with  the  ocean's  spray. 
The  ocean's  spray  that  o'er  it  dashed, 
By  strong  east  winds  to  madness  lashed, 
Striving  to  reach  the  wintry  stars. 
Kind  Summer  sought  to  hide  the  scars 
Of  the  huge  rock's  misshapen  side 

With  light  fern's  feathery  nod, 
With  yellow  co'.t's-foot  simple  pride, 

And  wealth  of  golden-rod. 
I  liked  in  that  stern  cliff  to  see 
A  brother-scorn  and  savagery  ! 
Thus  went  we  in  the  evening  holy, 
Atang  the  sea-line  pacing  slowly," 
When  sudden,  as  from  heaven  sent, 
And  free  from  earthly  element, 
Stood  on  the  crag  a  creature  fair, 

Of  bearing  free  and  bold, 
Like  wings  of  angels  on  the  air 

His  curls  of  shining  gold, 
20 


And  God  had  given  to  the  face 
A  beautiful  and  perfect  grace. 

Nothing  so  beautiful  before 

I  saw,  and  shall  see  nevermore ; 

And  I  were  loath  to  hear  again. 

A  to'ie  -o  full  of  stifled  pain 

As  when  her  eyes  the  lady  raised, 

Her  hand  her  forehead  shading, 
And  under  that  fair  screening  gazed 

Upon  the  sunset's  fading, 
And  knew  between  us  and  the  sun 
That  glorious  child,  her  own — her  one. 

His  gaze  was  on  the  distance  fixed, 
Where  skies  and  seas  their  azure  mixed  •, 
Perchance  his  stainless  childhood's  thought 
The  meaning  of  the  ocean  caught, 
Arid  revelations  never  given 

When  the  world's  vapors  dim 
Have  floated  between  us  and  heaven, 

Were  present  then  with  him. 
Plain  spoke  the  sea's  majestic  roll 
In  the  white  chambers  of  his  soul. 

Safe  stood  he,  while  no  downward  glance 
Broke  the  glad  tenor  of  his  trance ; 
For  lofty  thoughts  are  angel-bands 
With  charge  to  bear  us  in  their  hands. 
'T  is  sense  of  self  that  peril  flings 

Around  life's  lonely  peak, 
And  causes  mortal  shudderings 

As  in  that  infant  weak. 
No  more  the  seer — the  angel  bright — 
A  child  is  on  that  dizzy  height. 

Then  rang  the  lady's  silvery  tone: 
"  Mamma  will  come,  my  love,  my  own ! 
Look  up  and  see  the  sky's  bright  hue, 
Until  mamma  can  see  it  too." 
Alas  !  ere  we  the  summit  gain, 

The  boy  will  lose  his  hold ; 
The  chilling  fingers  of  the  Main 

Uncurl  those  locks  of  gold  ; 
And  Death  will  kiss  the  eyelids  fair 
Where  late  a  mother's  kisses  were  ! 

She  saw  that  I  could  climb  no  more, 
So  far  the  hoar  crag  jutted  o'er; 
Her  look  grew  strange  with  agony, 
And  hope  died  in  her  fading  eye. 
Still  the  white  lips  spoke  mild  and  clear 

"  Stand  now  upright,  and  spring  !" 
The  boy,  without  one  pause  of  fear, 

Or  single  questioning, 
Leaped  downward  to  her  glad  embrace, 
And  in  her  bosom  hid  his  face ! 

Wounded  against  the  rocks  I  found  her, 
A  happy  paleness  breathing  round  her, 
Half  like  a  woman  dear  and  faint, 
Half  with  the  look  of  some  sweet  saint 
Fondly  she  clasped  her  boy  the  while. 

Glad  tears  were  in  her  eyes ; 
Then  unto  me  with  gentle  smile 

She  said,  reproachful-wise, 
And  closer  clasped  that  cooing  dove— 
"  They  dwell  together,  Faith  oml  Lov«  * 


LUELLA   J.    B.    CASE. 


Miss  BARTLETT,  a  daughter  of  the  late 
Hon.  Lev;  Bartlett,  and  a  grand-daughter  of 
the  revolutionary  patriot,  Josiah  Bartlett, 
was  born  in  Kingston,  New  Hampshire,  and 
in  1333  was  married  to  Mr.  E.  Case,  then 


of  Lowell,  and  more  recently  of  Portland, 
Maine,  and  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  Her  poems 
and  prose  writings  have  nearly  all  been  pub 
lished  in  miscellanies  edited  by  her  friend, 
the  late  Mrs.  Edgerton  Mayo. 


THE  INDIAN  RELIC. 

YEARS  ago  was  made  thy  grave 
By  the  Ohio's  languid  wave, 
When  primeval  forests  dim 
Echoed  to  the  wild  bird's  hymn ; 
From  that  lone  and  quiet  bed, 
Rel'c  of  the  unknown  dead, 
Why  art  thou,  a  mouldering  thing, 
Here  amongst  the  bloom  of  spring  1 

Violets  gem  the  fresh,  young  grass, 
•Softest  breezes  o'er  thee  pass ; 
Nature's  voice,  in  tree  and  flower, 
Whispers  of  a  waking  hour ; 
Village  sounds  below  are  ringing, 
Birds  around  thee  joyous  singing — 
Thou,  upon  this  height  alone, 
No  reviving  power  hast  known. 

Yet  wert  thou  of  human  form, 
Once  with  all  life's  instincts  warm — 
Quailing  at,  the  storm  of  grief 
Like  the  frailest  forest  leaf: 
With  a  bounding  pulse — an  eye 
Brightening  o'er  its  loved  ones  nigh, 
Till  beneath  this  cairn  of  trust, 
Dust  was  laid  to  blend  with  dust. 

When  the  red  man  ruled  the  wood, 
And  his  frail  canoe  yon  flood, 
Hast  thou  held  the  unerring  bow 
That  the  antlered  head  laid  low  1 
Avid  in  battle's  fearful  strife, 
Swung  the  keen,  remorseless  knife  1 
Or.  with  woman's  loving  arm, 
Shielded  helplessness  from  harm  1 
Silent — sik-nt !      Naught  below 
O'er  thy  past  a  gleam  can  throw  : 
Or,  in  frame  of  sinewy  chief, 
Woman,  born  for  love  and  grief- 
Thankless  toil,  or  haughty  sway 
Sped  life's  brief  and  fitful  day. 
Like  the  autumn's  sapless  bough 
Crumbling  o'er  thee,  thou  art  now. 
Rest !     A  yoi)U<T.  organic  world, 
Into  sudden  ruin  hurled, 
Casts  its  fragments  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Midst  the  woodland's  softened  gloom 
Diod  those  frail  things  long  ago, 
But  the  soul  no  death  can  know: 


Rest !  thy  grave,  with  silent  preaching, 
Humble  Hope  and  Faith  is  teaching. 

Rest !     Thy  warrior  tribes  so  bold 
Roam  no  more  their  forests  old, 
And  the  thundering  fire-canoe 
Sweeps  their  placid  waters  through : 
Science  rules  where  Nature  smiled, 
Art  is  toiling  in  the  wild ; 
And  their  mouldering  cairns  alone 
Tell  the  tale  of  races  gone. 

Thus,  o'er  Time's  mysterious  sea, 
Being  moves  perpetually : 
Crowds  of  swift,  advancing  waves 
Roll  o'er  vanished  nation's  graves ; 
But  immor'al  treasures  sweep 
Still  unharmed  that  solemn  deep : 
Progress  holds  a  tireless  way — 
Mind  asserts  her  deathless  swav. 


ENERGY  IN  ADVERSITY. 


Hath  earth's  ceaseless  change 

Trampled  on  thy  heart  1 
Faint  not,  for  that  restless  range 

Soon  will  heal  the  smart. 
Trust  the  future:  time  will  prove 
Earth  hath  stronger,  truer  love. 

Bless  thy  God  —  the  heart  is  not 

An  abandoned  urn, 
Where,  all  lonely  and  forgot, 

Dust  and  ashes  mourn  : 
Bless  him,  that  his  mercy  brings 
Joy  from  out  its  withered  things. 

Onward,  for  the  truths  of  God  — 

Onward,  for  the  right  ! 
Firmly  let  the  field  be  trod, 

In  life's  coming  fight: 
Heaven's  own  hand,  will  lead  thee  on, 
Guard  thee  till  thy  task  is  done  ! 

Then  will  brighter,  sweeter  flowers 

Blossom  round  thy  way, 
Than  ere  sprung  in  Hope's  glad  boweib, 

In  thine  early  day  : 
And  the  rolling  years  shall  briniz 
Strength  and  h-a  ing  on  their  wing. 
306 


LUELLA    J.   B.   CASE. 


307 


LA  REVENANTE. 

OH,  look  on  me,  dear  one,  with  love  and  not  fear : 
It  is  quenchless  affection  alone  brings  me  here. 
Look  on  me  !     I  come  not  in  mystery  and  gloom, 
"With  the  pale  winding-sheet  and  the  hue  of  the  tomb. 
The  mould  of  the  grave  casts  no  stain  on  my  brow, 
With  the  poor,  sleeping  ashes,  my  home  is  not  now. 
Look  on  me,  thou  dear  one  !   the  light  of  my  eye 
Is  loving  and  kind  as  in  days  long  gone  by, 
When,  weeping  and  weary,  thy  head  on  my  breast 
Was  trustingly  laid  with  its  sorrows  to  rest. 
Then  turn  not  away,  for  my  face  is  the  same 
That  oft  to  thy  bedside  in  infancy  came, 
And  a  kiss  was  its  welcome  :  now  what  can  there  be 
To  make  it  so  fearful  and  dreadful  to  thee  ] 
Doth  the  life  of  the  spirit,  so  pure  and  so  high,  [eye, 
Steal  the  smile  from  the  cheek,  or  the  love  from  the 
That  the  mortal  must  shrink  with  such  pa'sying  fear, 
To  know  that  the  holy  and  death'ess  are  near'! 
Oh,  a  far  keener  pang  than  what  doomed  us  to  part, 
Is  to  feel  that  my  presence  sends  chill  to  thy  heart ! 
Though  blissful  my  life  as  a  spirit's  can  be,  [thee; 
Its  bright  hours  are  swept  by  fond  yearnings  for 
Soft,  musical  waves  from  the  Past  o'er  my  soul, 
Where  never  again  may  the  vexed  billows  roll, 
Are  wafting  emotions  so  hallowed,  yet  wild, 
That  I  leave  the  blesl  land  to  beho'd  thee,  my  child  ! 
Thou  hast  called  me  with  tears  in  the  still,  lonely 
And  I  spoke  to  thy  spirit,  but  not  to  thy  sight :  [night, 
Thou  hast  dreamed  of  me  oft  by  our  own  linden  tree, 
When  my  kiss  on  thy  cheek  was  the  zephyr  to  thee  ! 
Thy  life  since  we  parted  has  laid  down  its  glow,' 
And  year  after  year  has  but  shed  deeper  snow; 
Whilst  thou,  from  the  stern,  worldly  lore  of  thy  head, 
Hast  turned  with  a  heart-broken  love  to  the  dead  : 
I  knew  it,  far  off  in  my  shadowless  sphere,     [near  ; 
And  I  thought  it  nn.'ht  soothe  thee  to  know  I  was 
But  I  would  not  onp  fear  o'er  thy  tried  spirit  cast 
For  all  the  deep,  measureless  love  of  the  past: 
Farewell  !    Thou  wi.t  see  me  no  more,  but  the  spell 
Of  affection  shall  guard  thee,  poor  trembler,  farewell ! 


A  DE.A.TH  SCENE. 

'Tis  evening's  hush:  the  first  faint  shades  are  creep- 
Thro' the  still  room,  and  o'er  the  curtained  bed,  [ing 

Where  lies  a  weary  one,  all  calmly  sleeping, 
Touched  with  the  twilight  of  the  land  of  dread. 

Death's  cold  gray  shadow  o'er  her  features  falling, 
Marks  her  upon  the  threshold  of  the  tomb; 

Yot  from  within  no  siy;ht  nor  sound  appalling, 
Comes  o'er  her  spirit  with  a  thought  of  gloom. 

See — on  her  pa'lid  lip  bright  smiles  are  wreathing, 
While,  from  the  tranquil  gladness  of  her  breast, 

Sweet,  holy  words  in  gentlest  tones  are  breathing: 
"  Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

Nicrht  gathers  round — chill,  moon'ess,  yet  with  ten- 
Mild,  radiant  stars,  like  countless  angel-eyes,  [der, 

Bending  serenely,  from  tlieir  homes  of  splendor, 
Above  the  couch  where  that  meek  dreamer  lies. 

The  hours  wear  on:  the  shaded  lamp  burns  dimmer, 

A.nd  ebbs  that  sleeper's  breath  as  wanes  the  night, 


And  still  with  looks  of  love  those  soft  stars  glimmer 
Along  their  pathways  of  unchanging  light. 

She  slumbers  still — and  the  pale,  wasted  fingers 
Are  gently  raised,  as  if  she  dreamed  of  prayer; 

And  on  that  lip  so  wan  the  same  smile  lingers, 
And  still  those  trustful  words  are  trembling  there. 

The  night  is  done :  the  cold  arid  solemn  dawning 
With  stately  tread  goes  up  the  eastern  sky ; 

But  vain  its  power,  and  vain  the  pomp  of  morning, 
To  lift  the  darkness  from  that  dying  eye. 

Yet  Heaven's  full  joy  is  on  that  spirit  beaming- 
The  saul  has  found  its  higher,  happier  birth, 

And  brighter  shapes  flit  thro'  its  blessed  dreaming 
Than  ever  gather  round  the  sleep  of  earth. 

The  sun  is  high,  but  from  those  pale  lips  parted, 
No  more  those  words  float  on  the  languid  breath, 

Yet  still  the  expression  of  the  happy-hearted 
Has  triumphed  o'er  the  mournful  shades  of  death. 

Thro'  the  hushed  room  the  midday  ray  has  wended 
Its  glowing  pinion  to  a  pulseless  breast : 

The  gentle  sleeper's  mortal  dreams  are  ended — 
The  soul  has  gone  to  Him  who  gives  it  rest. 

DEATH  LEADING  AGE  TO  REPOSE. 

LEAD  him  gently — he  is  weary, 

Spirit  of  the  placid  brow  ! 
Life  is  long  and  age  is  dreary, 

And  he  seeks  to  slumber  now. 
Lead  him  gently — he  is  weeping 

For  the  friends  he  can  not  see ; 
Gently — for  he  shrinks  from  sleeping 

On  the  couch  he  asks  of  thee  ! 
Thou,  with  mien  of  solemn  gladness, 

With  the  thought-illumined  eye, 
Pity  thou  the  mortal's  sadness — 

Teach  him  it  is  well  to  die. 
Time  has  veiled  his  eye  with  blindness, 

On  thy  face  it  may  not  dwell, 
Or  its  sweet,  majestic  kindness 

Would  each  mournful  doubt  dispel. 
Passionless  thine  every  feature, 

Moveless  is  thy  Being's  calm, 
While  poor  suffering  human  nature 

Knows  but  few  brief  hours  of  balm  : 
Yet,  when  life's  long  strife  is  closing, 

And  the  grave  is  drawing  near, 
How  it  shrinks  from  that  reposing 

Where  there  comes  nor  hope  nor  fear  \ 
Open  thou  the  visioned  portal, 

That  reveals  the  life  sublime, 
That  within  the  land  immortal 

Waits  the  weary  child  of  Time. 
Open  thou  the  land  of  beauty, 

Where  the  Ideal  is  no  dream, 
And  the  child  of  patient  Duty 

Walks  in  joy's  unclouded  beam. 
Thou,  with  brow  that  owns  no  sorrow, 

With  the  eye  that  may  not  weep, 
Point  him  to  Heaven's  coming  morrow- 
Show  him  it  is  well  to  sleep  ! 


SARAH    T.    BO L  TON. 


(Born  1820). 


MRS.  BOLTON  resides  in  Ohio,  and  has  been 
:i  contributor  to  the  Herald  of  Truth  in  Cin 
cinnati,  to  the  Home  Journal  in  New  York, 


and  to  several  other  periodicals  whose  ftW< 
thors  are  accustomed  to  have  meaning  in 
their  verses. 


LINES,  * 

SUGGESTED  BY  A\  ANECDOTE  OF  PROFESSOR  MORSE.* 

DIDST  thou  desire  to  die  and  be  at  rest, 
Thou  of  the  noble  soul  and  giant  mind  ? 

Hadst  thou  grown  weary  in  the  hopeless  quest 
Of  blessedness  that  mortals  seldom  find  1 
Had  care  and  toil  and  sorrow  all  combined 

To  bring  that  sickness  of  the  soul  that  mars 
The  happiness  that  God  for  men  designed, 

Till  thy  sad  spirit  spurned  its  prison-bars, 

And  pined  to  soar  away  amidst  the  burning  stars  1 

Perchance  an  angel  sought  thee  in  that  hour — 
A  blessed  angel  from  the  world  of  light, 

Teaching  submission  to  Almighty  power, 
Whose  dealings  all  are  equal,  just,  and  right : 
Perchance  Hope  whispered  of  a  future,  bright 

And  glorious  in  its  triumph.     Soon  it  came : 
A  world,  admiring,  hailed  thee  with  delight, 

And  learning  joyed  to  trace  thy  deathless  name 

Upon  her  ponderous  tomes  in  characters  of  flame. 

Thou  brightest  meteor  of  a  starry  age,     [wrought 
What  does  the  world  not  owe  thee  1  thou  hast 

For  scientific  lore  a  glowing  page: 
Thy  mighty  energy  of  mind  has  brought 
To  man  a  wondrous  agent :  it  has  taught 

The  viewless  lightning  in  its  fight  sublime, 
To  bear  upon  its  wing  embodied  thought, 

Warm  from  its  birthplace  to  the  farthest  clime, 

Annihilating  space  and  vanquishing  e'en  time. 

Didst  thou  look  down  into  the  shadowy  tomb, 
And  crave  the  privilege  to  slumber  there, 

*  In  a  letter  to  General  Morris,  dated  Trenton  Falls,  Au 
gust  1 1,  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis  relates  the  following  curious  an 
ecdote  :  u  Among  our  feUow-jMMengen  up  the  Mohawk, 
we  had,  i"  two  adjoining  seats,  a  very  impressive  con 
trast — an  insane  youth,  on  his  way  to  an  asylum,  and  the 
mind  that  has  achieved  the  greatest  triumph  of  intellect 
in  our  time.  Morse,  01  the  electric  telegraph,  on  an  errand 
connected  with  the  conveyance  of  thought  by  lightning. 
.....In  the  course  of  a  brief  argument  on  the  expediency 
of  some  provision  for  putting  an  end  to  a  defeated  anil 
hopeless  existence,  Mr.  Morse;  said  that,  ten  years  ago, 
under  ill  health  and  discouragement,  he  would  gladly 
have  availed  himself  of  any  divine  authorization  for  ter 
minating  a  life  of  which  the  possessor  was  weary.  The 
sermon  that  lay  in  this  chance  remark  — the  loss  of  price 
less  discovery  to  the  worl  I  md  the  loss  of  fame  and  for- 
tune  to  himself,  which  v\  u,d  have  followed  a  death  thus 
prematurely  self-chosen— is  valuable  enough,  I  think,  to 
Justify  the  invasion  of  the  sacvedness  of  private  conversa 
tion  which  I  commit  by  thus  giving  it  to  print.  May  some 
one,  a  weary  of  the  world,  read  it  to  his  profit." 


j   Unhonored  and  forgotten  ? — thou,  on  whom 
Kind  Heaven  bestowed  endowments  rich  and  rare  ? 
Was  life  a  burden  that  thou  couldst  not  bear] 
A  lewon  this,  to  those  whose  souls  have  striven 

With  disappointment,  sorrow,  and  despair, 
Until  they  feed  on  poison,  and  are  driven 
To  quench  the  vital  spark  that  Deity  hath  given. 

And  it  should  teach  our  restless  hearts  how  dim 
And  erring  is  our  finite  vision  here — 

Should  make  us  trust,  through  humble  faith,  in  Him 
Who  sees  alike  the  distant  and  the  near. 
The  cloud  that  seems  so  sombre,  cold,  and  drear, 
May  hide  a  prospect  lovely,  bright,  and  clear : 

When  lightning's  flash  and  winds  are  wild  and  high, 
No  radiant  beam  of  sunlight  comes  to  cheer ; 

But  when  the  wrecking  tempest  has  gone  by, 

God  sets  the  blessed  bow  of  promise  in  the  sky 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  TRUTH. 

I  DREAMED  that  I  saw,  on  the  fair  brow  of  heaven 
The  star-jewelled  veil  of  a  midsummer  even  ; 
I  looked,  and,  as  quick  as  a  meteor's  birth, 
A  beautiful  Spirit  descended  to  earth. 

Her  brow  wore  a  halo  of  light,  and  her  eye 
Was  bright  as  the  stars  and  as  blue  as  the  sky ; 
Her  low,  silvery  voice  trembled  soft  as  a  spell, 
To  the  innermost  chords  of  the  heart,  as  it  fell. 

One  hand  held  a  banner  inscribed  with  "ACCORD," 
The  other,  the  glorious  Word  of  the  Lord  : 
Then,  softly,  the  beautiful  vision  did  glide 
To  the  palace  a  rich  man  had  reared  in  his  pride. 

Through  curtains  of  crimson  the  sun's  mellow  beam 
Fell,  soft  as  the  tremulous  light  of  a  dream, 
On  all  that  was  gorgeous  in  nature  and  art — 
On  all  that  could  gladden  the  eye  or  the  heart. 

The  rich  man  was  clad  in  fine  purple  and  gold, 
The  wealth  in  his  coffers  might  never  be  told  ; 
The  brows  of  the  servants  that  waited  around 
Grew  bright  when  he  smiled,  and  grew  pale  when 
he  frowned. 

Then  did  that  proud  nobleman  tremble  and  start, 
As  the  bright  Spirit  whispered  these  words  to  his 

heart : 
"  If  thou  wouldst  have  wealth  when  life's  journey 

is  o'er, 

Sell  all  that  tho    hast,  and  divide  with  the  poor," 
308 


SARAH    T.   BOLTON. 


309 


She  stood  in  the  cell,  where  the  death-breathing  air 
Was  rife  with  the  groans  of  the  prisoner's  despair, 
As  sadly  he  looked,  through  the  long  lapse  of  time, 
To  days  when  his  soul  was  unstained  hy  a  crime. 

She  pointed  away  to  his  Father  above — - 
She  siothed  him  in  accents  of  pity  and  love, 
And  said,  as  she  severed  the  links  of  his  chain, 
"  Thy  sins  are  forgiven,  transgress  not  again." 

She  came  in  her  strength,  and  the  gallows  that  stood 
For  ages,  all  reeking  and  blackened  with  blood, 
Like  a  lightning-scared  fiend,  pointing  up  to  the  sky, 
Feii  prostrate  to  earth,  at  the  glance  of  her  eye. 

She  spoke  !  old  earth  heard,  and  her  pulses  were  still : 
"God's  holy  commandment  forbiddeth  to  kill." 
That  spirit  of  beauty,  that  spirit  of  might,    [light. 
Went  forth,  till  the  earth  was  illumined  with  her 

The  strong  one  relenting,  was  fain  to  restore  [poor: 
The  spoil  he  had  wrenched  from  the  hand  of  the 
Injustice,  oppression,  and  wrong,  fled  away, 
Before  the  pure  light  of  millennial  day. 

The  turbulent  billows  of  faction  grew  calm  ; 
The  lion  laid  down  in  the  fold  with  the  lamb ; 
The  ploughshare  was  forged  from  the  sabre  and 

sword, 
And  the  mighty  bowed  down  to  the  sway  of  the  Lord. 

The  heathen  with  joy  cast  his  idols  away, 
And  knelt  'neath  his  own  vine  and  fig  tree  to  pray. 
By  every  kindred,  and  nation,  and  tongue, 
Glad  anthems  of  praise  to  Jehovah  were  sung. 


KENTUCKY'S  DEAD.* 

KENTUCKY,  mother  of  the  brave  ! 

Let  solemn  prayers  be  said, 
And  welcome  to  an  honored  grave 

Thy  loved  and  gallant  dead. 
Thy  gallant  dead — they  come,  they  come  ! 

What  will  thy  greeting  be  1 
The  bugle  note,  the  martial  drum. 

And  banners  waving  free  1 
No :  toll  for  them  the  solemn  knell, 

Let  dirges  sad  be  sung, 
And  be  the  flag  they  loved  so  well 

A  pall  around  them  flung. 
In  other  days,  when  freemen  bled 

In  fearful  border  strife, 


*  The  hones  of  the  Kentnckians  who  diod  under  the 
tomahawk  ;it  the  river  Raisin,  in  1812.  were  conveyed  to 
the  river  shore,  at  Cincinnati,  on  the  29ih  of  September, 
1848,  hy  an  escort  of  Cincinnati  firemen,  and  placed  in 
charge  of  the  Kentucky  committee,  to  whom  their  recep 
tion  WHS  assigned.  They  were  contained  in  a  wooden 
box,  painted  black,  bearing  the  inscription  : 
"KKNTUCKY'S  GALLANT  DKAD. 

January  18,  181-2.— River  Raisin,  Michigan." 
The  bones  of  these  brave  men  were  found  in  a  com 
mon  grave,  which  was  accidentally  upturned  while  a 
street  in  Monroe,  Michigan,  was  being  graded.  The  fact 
of  the  skulls  being  all  cloven  with  the  tomahawk,  induced 
the  workmen  to  make  inquiry,  and  an  aged  Frenchman, 
a  survivor  of  the  massacre,  knew  them  as  the  bones  of 
the  unfortunate  Kentuckians— remembering  the  spot 
where  they  were  buried.  Information  was  sent  to  Ken 
tucky,  and  that  state  promptly  took  means  for  their  re- 
•noval.  The  charge  was  devolved  upon  Colonel  Brooke, 
participant  in.  and  survivor  of,  that  unfortunate  battle. 


When  savage  tomahawks  were  red 
With  unoffending  life — 

With  all  the  ardor  youth  imparts, 

They  sought  the  battle  plain : 
Those  stalwart  forms  and  noble  hearts, 

Came  never  back  again. 

Oh,  they  were  missed  where  kindred  met 

In  cottage  homes  of  yore — 
Flowers  bloomed  and  died,  suns  rose  and  set, 

But  they  returned  no  more. 

Young  hopeful  hearts  in  sorrow  pined, 

Young  eyes  were  wet  with  tears, 
And,  fondly  mourning,  Memory  shrined 

Their  names  for  weary  years. 
Theirs  was  no  common  battle  field, 

For  savage  hearts  decreed  ; 
And  savage  vengeance  there  revealed 

A  most  inhuman  deed. 
A  grave  to  rest  in  was  denied 

The  brave  and  gallant  slain ; 
And  foemen  left  them  where  they  died, 

Upon  the  battle  plain. 
No  voice  to  soothe,  no  hand  to  bless, 

The  suffering  wounded  came  ; 
But  they,  in  all  their  helplessness, 

Were  given  to  the  flame. 
Where  Raisin's  sparkling  waters  glide 

Through  forest,  grove,  and  glade, 
Defending  Freedom's  soil,  they  died, 

And  there  their  graves  were  made — 
Yes,  made  beneath  the  ancient  trees, 

Deep  in  the  tangled  wilds : 
Their  only  requiem  was  the  breeze 

Amidst  the  forest  aisles. 
The  moonbeams  came  at  midnight's  hour 

And  softly  trembled  there, 
And  angels  made  that  lonely  bower 

Their  never  sleeping  care. 
And  fragrant  flowers,  of  brilliant  dyes, 

Bloomed  o'er  the  silent  sod, 
And  lifted  up  their  tearful  eyes 

Like  mourners  to  their  God. 
The  world  has  changed  ;  for  many  years 

Have  come  since  then  and  gone, 
With  joys  and  woes,  and  hopes  and  fear, 

And  still  they  slumber  on. 
The  pleasant  homes  in  which  they  grew 

Are  now  the  stranger's  care  : 
The  gay,  and  beautiful,  and  true, 

And  loved — they  are  not  there. 
The  friends  who  knew  their  manly  worth 

Have  passed  from  time  away  ; 
The  children  left  beside  their  hearth 

Are  growing  old  and  gray. 
Another  generation  bears 

Their  ashes,  sad  and  slow — 
Another  generation  wears 

For  them  the  weeds  of  wo 
Thy  gallant  dead  !  oh,  hoard  thei-  dust 

Within  thy  holiest  shrine  • 
It  is  a  proud,  a  sacred  trust — 

Their  deathless  fame  is  thine  ! 


HANNAH    J.    WOODMAN. 


Miss  WOODMAN  is  the  authoress  of  The 
Casket  of  Gems,  and  two  or  three  other  small 
volumes,  and  she  has  been  for  several  years 
a  'eacher  in  the  public  schools  of  Boston,  of 


which  city  she  is  a  native.  Many  of  her  pu 
ems  appeared  in  the  miscellanies  edited  by 
her  friend  Mrs.  Edgarton  Mayo.  There  is 
no  published  collection  of  them. 


THE  ANNUNCIATION. 

Luke  i.  -36-38. 

SILENCE  o'er  ancient  Judah!     'Twas  the  hush 
Of  holy  eve,  and  through  the  balmy  air 

There  came  a  trembling  and  melodious  gush 
Of  softest  melody,  as  if  the  prayer 

Of  kneeling  thousands  had  prevailed  on  high, 

And  angel  choirs  were  bending  to  reply. 

Man  heard  the  sound  of  music,  and  arose, 
And  cast  the  mantle  of  despair  away, 

And  said.  "  Deliverance  comes,  forget  your  woes, 
There  dawns  on  Judah  her  triumphant  day." 

But,  with  the  so'ernri  strain  of  music,  passed 

The  hopes  too  flattering  and  too  fair  to  last. 

Not  so  to  one,  the  humblest  of  her  race — 
For  to  her  startled  and  astonished  eye 

There  came  a  visitant  of  matchless  grace, 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  celestial  dye  : 

"Fear  not,  thou  highly  favored" — thus  he  sang, 

While  Heaven's  high  arches  with  the  echoes  rang. 

"  Fear  not,  thy  God  is  with  thee,  and  hast  poured 
The  richest  of  his  blessings  on  thy  bead  ; 

And  thou  wilt  bear  a  son,  on  whom  the  Lord 
The  fulness  of  his  grace  and  power  will  shed : 

His  name  shall  be  Emmanuel,  Mighty  One, 

Savior  of  men,  and  God's  anointed  Son." 

Oh.  who  can  paint  the  rushing  tides  of  thought 
Which  swept  like  lightning  through  the  startled 
mind 

Of  that  lone  worshipper,  whose  faith  was  brought 
'I'll us  suddenly  its  utmost  verge  to  find  : 

It  failed  not.  and  the  curtain  was  withdrawn 

Which  veiled  futurity's  effulgent  dawn. 

She  rose  with  brow  serene  :  her  eyes  fonrot 
Their  dreamy  softness,  and  were  upward  cast, 

Filled  with  celestial  radiance.     Earth  had  not 
The  power  that  glorious  prophecy  to  blast  : 

"Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord,  and  teach 

The  trembling  lip  to  frame  submissive  speech  !" 

Again  there  floated  on  the  ambient  air 
That  thrilling  melody,  while  countless  throngs, 

Waving  their  jjolden  censers,  heard  the  prayer, 
Which  mingled  with  their  own  triumphant  songs 


The  vision  faded  in  a  sea  of  light, 

And  left  to  earth  the  still  and  holy  night. 


WHEN  WILT  THOU  LOVE  ME? 

LOVE  me  when  the  spring  is  here, 

With  its  busy  bird  and  bee ; 
When  the  air  is  soft  and  clear, 

And  the  heart  is  full  of  glee ; 
When  the  leaves  and  buds  are  seen 

Bursting  frsm  the  naked  bough, 
Dearest,  with  a  faint  serene, 

Wilt  thou  love  me  then  as  now  1 

When  the  queenly  June  is  dressed 

In  her  robes  so  fair  and  bright ; 
When  the  earth,  most  richly  blessed, 

Sleeps  in  soft  and  golden  light ; 
When  the  sweetest  songs  are  heard 

In  the  forest,  on  the  hill — 
When  thy  soul  by  these  is  stirred, 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  love  me  still  1 

When  the  harvest-moon  looks  out 

On  the  fields  of  ripened  grain ; 
When  the  merry  reapers  shout 

While  they  glean  the  burdened  plain 
When,  their  labors  o'er,  they  sit 

Listening  to  the  night-bird's  lay, 
May  there  o'er  thy  memory  flit 

Thoughts  of  one  far,  far  away  ! 

When  the  winter  hunts  the  bird 

From  his  leafy  home  and  bower ; 
When  the  bee,  no  longer  heard, 

Bides  the  cold,  ungenial  hour; 
When  the  blossoms  rise  no  more 

From  the  garden,  field,  and  glen  i 
When  our  forest  joys  are  o'er, 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  love  me  then  1 

Love  for  ever  !  'tis  the  spring 

Whence  our  choicest  blessings  flow  ! 
Angel  harps  its  praises  sing. 

Angel  hearts  its  secrets  know. 
When  thy  feet  are  turned  away 

From  the  busy  haunts  of  men — 
When  thy  feet  in  Eden  strav, 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  love  me  then  ! 
310 


SUSAN    ARCHER    TALLEY. 


SUSAN  ARCHER  TA*LLEY  was  born  in  Han 
over  county,  Virginia,  where  the  early  years 
of  her  childhood  were  passed.  Her  father 
was  descended  from  one  of  those  Huguenots 
who,  escaping  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholo 
mew,  fled  to  America,  and  settled  in  Virginia. 
He  studied  law  under  the  late  Judge  Robert 
Taylor  of  Norfolk,  but  on  account  of  ill  health 
subsequently  resigned  the  practice  of  his  pro 
fession,  and  retired  to  a  place  in  the  imme 
diate  vicinity  of  Richmond,  where  he  recent 
ly  died,  and  where  his  family  still  resides. — 
Her  mother  was  a  daughter  of  Captain  Ar 
cher,  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  distin 
guished  families  of  Norfolk. 

Miss  Talley  was  remarkable  for  a  preco 
city  of  intellect  and  an  early  development  of 
character.  Though  of  an  exceedingly  happy 
temperament,  she  rarely  mingled  with  other 
children,  but  would  spend  most  of  her  time 
in  reading,  in  an  intense  application  to  study, 
or  in  wandering  amid  the  beautiful  woods 
and  meadows  that  surrounded  her  father's 
residence.  At  nine  years  of  age  she  sudden 
ly  and  entirely  lost  her  hearing,  which  had 
evidently  the  effect  of  subduing  the  natural 
joyousness  of  her  disposition,  and  of  produ 
cing  that  dreamy  and  contemplative  tone  of 
character  which  has  since  distinguished  her. 
It  may  be  said  that  from  this  period  till  she 
was  sixteen  her  life  was  passed  in  the  soli 
tude  of  her  chamber,  where  she  seemed  to 
derive  from  books  a  constant  and  ever  in 
creasing  enjoyment.  In  consequence  of  her 
extreme  diffidence  it  was  not  until  she  was 
in  her  fifteenth  year  that  the  nature  and  force 
of  her  talents  were  apprehended  by  her  most 
intimate  associates.  A  manuscript  volume 
of  her  verses  now  fell  under  the  observation 
of  her  father,  who  saw  in  them  illustrations 
of  unlooked-for  powers,  to  the  cultivation  of 
which  he  subsequently  devoted  himself  with 
intelligent  and  assiduous  care  while  he  lived. 
When  she  was  about  seventeen  years  of  age 
some  of  her  poems  appeared  in  The  South 
ern  Literary  Messenger,  and,  yielding  to  the 
wishes  of  her  friends,  she  has  since  been  a 


frequent  and  popular  contributor  to  that  ex» 
cellent  magazine. 

What  is  most  noticeable  in  the  poems  of 
Miss  Talley  is  their  rhythmical  harmony, 
considered  in  connexion  with  her  perfect  in 
sensibility  to  sound,  for  a  period  so  long  that 
she  could  not  have  had  before  its  commence 
ment  any  ideas  of  musical  expression  or  po 
etical  art.  The  only  instance  in  literary  his 
tory  in  which  so  melodious  a  versification 
has  been  attained  under  similar  circumstan 
ces  is  that  of  James  Nack,  the  deaf  and  dumb 
poet  of  New  York,  whose  writings  were  sev 
eral  years  ago  given  to  the  public  by  Mr. 
Prosper  M.  Wetmore.  There  is  not  in  Mr. 
Nack's  poems,  however,  any  single  compo 
sition  that  can  be  compared  with  Ennerslie, 
in  grace,  or  variety  of  cadences,  or  in  ideal 
beauty.  This  poem,  without  being  an  imi 
tation,  will  remind  the  reader  of  one  of  the 
finest  productions  of  Tennyson. 

Miss  Talley  is  remarkable  not  only  for  the 
peculiar  interest  of  her  character,  but  fur  the 
variety  of  her  abilities.  She  is  a  painter  as 
well  as  a  poet,  and  some  of  the  productions 
of  her  pencil  have  been  praised  by  the  best 
critics  in  the  arts  of  design,  both  for  striking 
and  original  conception  and  for  skilful  exe 
cution.  Her  friends  therefore  anticipate  for 
her  a  distinguished  position  among  those  wo 
men  who  have  cultivated  painting,  and  they 
find  in  her  pictures  the  same  characteristics 
that  maik  her  literary  compositions. 

Young,  and  gifted  with  such  unusual  pow 
ers,  she  rarely  mingles  in  society  beyond  the 
select  circle  of  friends  by  whom  she  is  sur 
rounded.  She  finds  her  happiness  in  the 
quiet  pleasures  and  affections  of  home.  Her 
life  is  essentially  that  of  a  poet.  Ardent  in 
temperament,  yet  shrinkingly  sensitive,  Avith 
a  fine  fancy  which  is  often  warmed  into  im 
agination,  and  an  instinctive  apprehension 
and  love  of  the  various  forms  of  beauty,  po 
etry  becomes  the  expression  of  her  nature, 
and  the  compensation  for  that  infirmity  by 
which  she  is  deprived  of  balf  the  pleasures 
that  minister  to  a  fine  intelligence. 

311 


312 


SUSAN    ARCHER   TALLEY. 


ENNKRSL1E. 


A  HOARY  tower,  grim  and  high, 
All  beneath  a  summer  sky, 
Where  the  river  glideth  by 

Sullenly — sullenly  ; 
Across  the  wave  in  slugglish  gloom, 
Heavy  and  black  the  shadows  loom, 
But  the  water-lilies  brightly  bloom 

Round  about  grim  Enncrslie. 

All  upon  the  bank  below 
Alders  green  and  willows  grow, 
That  ever  sway  them  to  and  fro 

Mournfully — mournfully  ; 
Never  a  boat  doth  pass  that  way, 
Never  is  heard  a  carol  gay, 
Nor  doth  a  weary  pilgrim  stray 

Down  by  haunted  Enrierslie. 

Yet  in  that  tower  is  a  room 
From  whose  oaken-fretted  dome 
Weird  faces  peer  athwart  the  gloom 

Mockingly — mockingly  ; 
And  there  beside  the  taper's  gleam 
That  maketh  darkness  darker  seem, 
Like  one  that  waketh  in  a  dream, 

Sits  the  lord  of  Ennerslie  : 

Sitteth  in  his  carved  chair — 
From  his  forehead  pale  and  fair 
Falleth  down  the  raven  hair 

Heavily — heavily  ; 
There  is  no  color  on  his  cheek, 
His  lip  is  pa!e — he  doth  not  speak, 
And  rarely  doth  his  footstep  break 

The  stillness  of  grim  Ennerslie. 

From  the  casement,  mantled  o'er 
With  ivy-boughs  and  lichens  hoar, 
The  shadows  creep  along  the  floor 

Stealthily — stealthily  ; 
They  glide  along,  a  spectral  train, 
And  rest  upon  the  crimson  stain 
W'here  of  old  a  corpse  was  lain — 

Murdered  at  grim  Ennerslie. 

In  a  niche  within  the  wall, 
Where  the  shadows  deepest  fall, 
Like  a  coffin  and  a  pall, 

Gloomily — gloomily, 
Sits  an  owlet,  huge  and  gray, 
That  there  hath  sat  for  many  a  day, 
And  like  a  ghost  doth  gaze  alway 

Upon  the  lord  fof  Ennerslie  ; 
Gazeth  with  its  mystic  eyes 
Ever  in  a  weird  surprise, 
Like  some  demon  in  disguise, 

Ceaselessly — ceaselessly ; 
And  close  beside  that  haunted  nook, 
Bendeth  o'er  an  open  book, 
With  a  strange  and  dreamy  look, 

The  pale  young  lord  of  Ennerslie. 

Mrith  a  measured  step  and  slow, 
At  times  he  paces  to  and  fro, 
Muttering  in  whispers  low, 
Fitfully— fitfully  ; 


Or  resting  in  his  ancient  chair, 
Gazing  on  the  vacant  air — 
Sure  some  phantom  sees  he  there, 
The  haunted  lord  of  Ennerslie  ! 

There  is  a  picture  on  the  wall, 
A  statue  on  a  pedestal — 
Standing  where  the  sunbeams  fall 

Goldenly — goldenly ; 
And  in  either  form  and  face 
The  self-same  beauty  you  may  trace — 
Imaged  with  a  wondrous  grace, 
•  That  angel-form  at  Ennerslie  ! 

Once,  't  is  said,  upon  a  time, 
Eve  his  manhood's  golden  prime, 
Wandering  in  a  southern  clime 

Restlessly — restlessly, 
There  passed  him  by  a  lady  fair, 
With  violet  eyes  and  golden  hair : 
It  is  her  form  that  gleameth  there, 

That  angel-form  at  Ennerslie. 

When  the  stars  are  in  the  west, 
And  the  water-lilies  rest, 
Rocking  on  the  river's  breast 

Sleepily — sleepily — 
When  the  curfew,  far  remote, 
Blendeth  with  the  night-bird's  note, 
Down  the  river  glides  a  boat 

From  the  shades  of  Ennerslie. 

Glideth  on  by  Ellesmaire, 
Where  doth  dwell  a  lady  fair, 
With  violet  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

Lonesomely — lonesomelv ; 
At  the  window's  height  alway 
She  weaves  a  scarf  of  colors  gay, 
And  in  the  distance  far  away 

She  seeth  haunted  Ennerslie. 

Sitting  in  her  lonely  room, 
Ere  the  twilight's  purple  gloom, 
Weaving  at  her  fairy  loom 

Wearily — wearily, 
She  heareth  music  sweet  and  low : 
It  is  a  song  she  well  doth  know ; 
She  used  to  sing  it  long  ago — 

It  cometh  up  from  Ennerslie. 

Back  she  threw  the  casement  wide 
She  saw  the  river  onward  glide, 
The  lilies  nodding  on  the  tide 

Sleepily — sleepily ; 
She  saw  a  boat  with  snowy  sail 
Bearing  onward  with  the  gale ; 
She  saw  the  silken  streamer  pale — 

She  saw  the  lord  of  Ennerslie ! 


F.vmxrc  are  the  summer  leaves — 
The  fields  are  rich  with  golden  sheavea 
Her  silken  web  the  lady  weaves 

Wearily — wearily  ; 
Her  cheek  has  lost  its  summer  bloom, 
Her  lovely  eyes  are  full  of  gloom, 
She  weaveth  at  her  fairy  loom, 

And  looketh  down  to  Ennerslie. 


SUSAN    ARCHER   TALLEY. 


She  doth  not  smile,  she  doth  not  sigh — 
Above  her  is  the  cold  gray  sky ; 
Below,  the  river  moaneth  by 

Drearily — drearily  ; 
She  sees  the  withered  leaflets  ride 
Like  fairy  barks  adown  the  tide : 
She  saith,  "  Right  merrily  they  glide, 

For  they  go  down  to  Ennerslie." 

Beside  her  on  the  hearth  of  stone, 
There  sits  a  bent  and  withered  crone, 
Who  doth  for  ever  rock  and  moan. 

Drowsily — drowsily ; 
She  crooneth  songs  of  mystic  rhyme, 
And  legends  of  the  olden  time; 
She  telleth  tales  of  death  and  crime — 

She  tells  of  haunted  Ennerslie. 

She  telleth  how,  as  she  hath  heard, 
How  dwelleth  there  a  demon  weird 
In  seeming  of  an  owsel-bird, 

Ceaselessly — ceaselessly ; 
And  how  that  fiend  must  linger  still, 
And  work  the  master  wo  and  ill, 
Till  one  shall  dare  with  fearless  will 

Go  down  to  haunted  Ennerslie. 

She  telleth  how — that  ancient  crone — 

He  loved  a  lady  years  agone, 

The  fairest  that  the  earth  has  known, 

Secretly — secretly — 
But  dare  not  woo  her  for  his  bride, 
Because  that  death  will  sure  betide 
The  first  that  in  her  beauty's  pride 

Shall  go  to  haunted  Ennerslie. 

She  listened — but  she  nothing  said; 

Like  a  lily  drooped  her  head, 

Her  white  hand  wound  the  silken  thread 

Carelessly — carelessly  ; 
She  rove  the  scarf  from  out  the  loom, 
She  slowly  paced  across  the  room, 
And  gleaming  through  the  midnight  gloom 

She  saw  the  light  at  Ennerslie. 

The  nurse  she  slumbered  in  her  chair: 

Then  up  arose  that  lady  fair 

And  crept  adown  the  winding  stair 

Silently — silently  ; 
A  boat  was  by  the  river-side, 
The  silken  web  as  sail  she  tied, 
And  lovely  in  her  beauty's  pride, 

Went  sailing  down  to  Ennerslie. 

Back  upon  the  sighing  gale 

Her  tresses  floated  like  a  veil ; 

Her  brow  was  cold,  her  cheek  was  pale, 

Fearfully— fearfully ; 
She  heard  strange  whispers  in  her  ear, 
She  saw  a  shadow  hover  near — 
Her  very  life-blood  chilled  with  fear, 

As  down  she  went  to  Ennerslie. 

As  upward  her  blue  eyes  she  cast, 
A  shadowy  form  there  flitted  past, 
And  settled  on  the  quivering  mast 

Silently— silently. 

The  lady  gazed,  yet  spake  no  word : 
She  knew  il  was  the  evil  bird, 


The  wicked  demon,  grim  and  weird, 
That  dwelt  at  haunted  Ennerslie. 

Fainter  from  the  tower's  height 
Seems  to  her  the  beacon-light, 
Gleaming  on  her  darkening  sight 

Fitfully  -fitfully  ; 
The  river's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
An  icy  calm  is  on  her  brow ; 
She  saith,  "  The  curse  is  on  me  now, 

But  he  is  free  at  Ennerslie  !" 

Within  that  tower's  solitude 
He  sitteth  in  a  musing  mood, 
And  gazeth  down  upon  the  flood 

Dreamilv — dreamily : 
When  lo !  he  sees  a  fairy  bark 
Gliding  amid  the  shadows  dark, 
And  there  a  lady  still  and  stark — 

A  wondrous  sight  at  Ennerslie. 

He  hurried  to  the  bank  below, 
Upon  the  strand  he  drew  the  prow — 
He  drew  it  in  the  moonlight's  glow, 

Eagerly — eagerly  ; 
He  parted  back  the  golden  hair 
That  veiled  the  cheek  and  forehead  fair, 
He  started  at  her  beauty  rare, 

The  pale  young  lord  of  Ennerslie. 

He  called  her  name:  she  nothing  said; 
Upon  his  bosom  drooped  her  head ; 
The  color  from  her  wan  cheek  fled 

Utterly — utterly. 

Slowly  rolled  the  sluggish  tide,  ,  • 

The  breeze  amid  the  willows  sighed ; 
"  This  is  too  deep  a  curse  !"  he  cried — 

The  stricken  lord  of  Ennerslie. 


GENIUS. 

SpiniT  immortal  and  divine  ! 

Whose  calm  and  searching  eye 
Looks  forth  upon  the  universe, 

Its  wonders  to  descry — 
Whose  eagle-wing,  resistless,  proud, 
Hath  soared  above  each  misty  cloud 

That  o'er  us  darkly  spread — 
I  bow  before  thee,  as  of  old 
The  Grecian  bowed  to  her  who  told 

The  oracles  of  dread. 

For  thou  art  Nature's  prophet — priest, 

Anointed  by  her  God, 
And  dwellest  in  her  sacred  courts, 

By  others  all  untrod  : 
To  thee  alone  'tis  given  to  raise 
The  veil  that  shrouds  from  mortal  gaze 

Her  mysteries  sublime ; 
To  hear  her  sweet  and  solemn  tone 
Revealing  wonders  else  unknown 

In  all  the  lapse  of  time. 

And  more — the  human  heart  is  dee}., 
And  passionate,  and  strong, 

But  thou  mayst  read  its  sealed  page. 
And  search  its  depths  among ; 

Mayst  bow  it  with  thy  sptll  of  might 


J14 


SUSAN    ARCHER   TALLEY. 


Or  urge  it  to  a  prouder  flight, 

A  loftier  desire — 
Till,  yielding  to  thy  high  control, 
The  newly-wakened,  eager  soul, 

To  purer  things  aspire. 

Thou  dwellest  on  this  lowly  earth, 

Majestic  and  alone ; 
Thy  home  is  in  a  brighter  clime, 

Near  the  Eternal's  throne ; 
And  evermore,  in  tameless  might, 
Still  strivest  thou  to  wing  thy  flight, 

Its  glory  to  attain  ; 
E'en  as  the  eagle  turns  his  eye, 

Though  fettered,  to'his  native  sky, 
And  struggles  with  his  chain. 

Men  gaze  in  strange  and  wondering  awe 

On  thine  inspired  brow, 

But  reck  not  of  the  hidden  things 

That  darkly  sleep  below  ; 
Nor  how  thou  spurnest  earth's  control, 
What  voices  haunt  thy  troubled  soul — 

What  shadows  round  thee  play  ; 
Thy  dreams  are  all  of  future  bliss, 
Of  other  worlds — and  e'en  in  this 

Thy  name  shall  not  decay  ! 

Sage  !  musing  in  thy  lonely  cell — 

Aspiring,  yet  serene ; 
Tracking  afar  the  light  of  truth, 

Through  darkness  dimly  seen — 
A  thousand  minds  thy  truths  have  caught, 
And  pondered  o'er  thy  lofty  thought, 

In  inspiration  high  : 

A  thousand  minds  have  scanned  the  page 
Made  clearer  by  the  lapse  of  age, 

In  which  thy  treasures  lie. 

Bard — lo  !  the  thrilling  strain  that  poured 

Thy  soul's  deep  melodies, 
Have  waked  in  many  an  echoing  heart 

A  thousand  sympathies ; 
Have  lived  through  years  of  dull  decay 
When  princely  names  have  passed  away, 

That  were  a  glory  then, 
Till  every  word  hath  thus  become 
Like  to  a  thrilling  voice  of  home, 

In  the  deep  hearts  of  men  ! 

And  ye  o'er  whose  inspired  souls 

Strange  shapes  of  beauty  gleamed, 
Embodied  to  the  gaze  of  men 

in  forms  of  heaven  that  seemed — 
The  marble  still  in  beauty  lives, 
The  pictured  canvass  but  receives 

New  value  from  decay  ; 
And  both  shall  perish  ere  the  name 
Of  him  who  gave  them  unto  fame 

Hath  passed,  like  them,  away. 

And  they,  to  whom  were  given  the  gift 

Of  Inspiration's  tongue — 
Upon  whose  high,  commanding  words 

Senates  in  rapture  hung ; 
And  they,  the  dauntless  chiefs  and  brave, 
On  battle-field  and  ocean-wave, 

Who  won  a  lofty  fame — 
L<*     ieathless,  and  defying  Time, 


A  thousand  monuments  sublime 
Commemorate  each  name ! 

Thus  Genius  lives — its  spirit  caught 

From  heaven's  own  height  afar, 
Shines  tranquil  mid  the  gloom  of  earth, 

An  ever-guiding  star  : 
A  shining  mark  that's  given  to  show 
To  those  who  dark'y  tread  below 

The  way  our  pathway  tends ; 
A  beautv  and  a  mystery, 
A  prophecy  of  things  to  be 

Wrhen  earthly  being  ends  ! 

A  prophecy  of  glorious  things— 
Of  holy  things  and  bright, 

Which  we  behold  not  through  the  mists 
That  dim  our  mortal  sight ; 

A  voice  that  whispers  from  afar, 

Telling  of  wondrous  things  that  are 
Where  perfectness  hath  power ! 

A  light  to  guide  the  spirit  on 

Till  that  celestial  state  be  won 
Which  was  our  primal  dower. 

Thou  shalt  go  forth  in  prouder  might 

And  firmer  strength  ere  long, 
And  Truth  shall  guide  thee  on  thy  way 

WTith  revelation  strong ; 
And  thou  shalt  see  with  wondering  eyes 
The  thousand  mighty  mysteries 

That  round  our  being  cling ; 
Unfolding  truths  whose  shadows  lie 
Darkly  before  the  doubting  eye, 

Our  souls  bewildering. 

High  souls  have  gazed  on  wondrous  thing^ 

And  men  have  called  them  dreams — 
But  they  are  such  as  shadowed  stars 

Upon  the  mirroring  streams; 
We  gaze  upon  the  phantom-glow — - 
Alas!  we  gaze  too  much  below — 

And  strive  to  grasp  in  vain ; 
But  Genius  turns  his  gaze  afar, 
Where  like  a  pure  and  shining  star 

The  glorious  truth  is  seen ! 

Go  forth,  thou  spirit  proud  and  high, 

Upon  thy  soaring  flight ! 
Thou  art  the  messenger  of  God, 

And  he  will  guide  thee  right. 
Go  proudly  forth  and  fearlessly, 
For  many  a  hidden  mystery 

Awaits  thee  to  unseal : 
And  men  shall  gaze  in  rapt  surprise 
On  wonders  that  to  darkened  eyes 

Thy  brightness  shall  reveal ! 


MY  SISTER. 

I  HAVE  an  only  sister, 

Fresh  in  her  girlish  glee, 
For  she  is  only  seventeen, 

And  still  is  fancy  free : 
She  has  a  fair  and  happy  face, 

Like  cloudless  skies  in  May — 
Or  like  a  lake,  where  tranquilly 

The  silver  moonbeams  play. 


SUSAN   ARCHER   TALLEY. 


315 


She  is  my  only  sister, 

And  we've  together  grown, 
Till  childhood's  thoughtless  glee  hath  changed 

To  girlhood's  gentle  tone  ; 
And  we  have  shared  in  varied  scenes 

Of  sadness  and  of  glee, 
But  never  were  two  sisters 

As  different  as  we. 
\Tet  in  our  outward  seeming, 

In  feature  and  in  face, 
They  sav  that  e'en  a  careless  glance 

May  some  resemblance  trace  ; 
Save  that  a  flood  of  sunny  light 

O'er  her  seems  softly  shed, 
While  over  me  some  darker  shades 

Like  twilight  shadows  spread. 
Her  tresses,  tinged  with  golden, 

All  gracefully  entwine 
Upon  a  calm  and  placid  brow 

Of  fairer  hue  than  mine ; 
Her  cheek  is  of  a  brighter  glow, 

Her  eye  a  softer  brown, 
Where  from  the  dark  and  drooping  fringe 

A  dreamy  shade  is  thrown. 
My  sister  hath  no  sorrow 

To  check  her  spirit  free ; 
No  mournful  shadows  o'er  her  pass 

As  oft  they  pass  o'er  me ; 
Her  smile  is  ever  beaming  forth 

In  one  unchanging  mood, 
The  gladness  of  a  sunny  heart 

By  sorrow  unsubdued. 
She's  happy  mid  the  revelry, 

And  in  the  mazy  dance; 
And  in  the  drearest  solitude 

As  brightly  shines  her  glance  ; 
She  calmly  plucks  the  flowers  of  life 

Around  her  pathway  spread, 
And  careth  not  for  those  to  bloom, 

Nor  dreams  of  others  dead. 
The  deep,  delirious  dreamings, 

Whose  wild,  bewildering  strife 
Beguiles  the  heart  from  sober  truths 

And  wearies  it  of  life — 
The  sudden  fits  of  mournfulness, 

Of  wild  and  fitful  glee, 
My  sister's  tranquil  breast  knows  not, 

As  they  are  known  to  me. 
There  are  many  like  my  sister — 

They  who  serenely  glide, 
Secure  in  tranquil  cheerfulness 

Adown  life's  stormy  tide. 
'Tis  strange  to  think  how  tranquilly 

They  brave  the  tempest's  frown, 
And  calmly  breast  the  troubled  waves, 

When  other  barks  go  down  ! 
My  fair  and  gentle  sister ! 

How  calmly  glides  her  life — 
No  weariness  to  dim  her  brow, 

No  care  or  spirit-strife  : 
With  happy  heart  she  hears  alone 

The  music  of  life's  stream, 
And  all  things  seem  to  her  as  yet 

A  fair  and  fairy  dream  ! 


THE  SEA-SHELL. 

SADLY  the  murmur,  stealing 

Through  the  dim  windings  of  the  mazy  shell, 
Seemeth  some  ocean-mystery  concealing 

Within  its  cell. 

And  ever  sadly  breathing, 

As  with  the  tone  of  far-off  waves  at  play,  [ing, 
That  dreamy  murmur  through  the  sea-shell  wreath- 

Ne'er  dies  away. 

It  is  no  faint  replying 

Of  far-off  melodies  of  wind  and  wave, 
No  echo  of  the  ocean-billow,  sighing 

Through  gem-lit  cave. 

It  is  no  dim  retaining 

Of  sounds  that  through  the  dim  sea-caverns  swell, 
But  some  lone  ocean-spirit's  sad  complaining 

Within  that  cell. 
"  Where  are  the  waters  flowing'?" 

Thus  breathes  that  ever-wailing  spirit-tone  ; 
"  WThere  are  the  bright  gems  in  their  beauty  glow- 
In  cavern  lone  1  [ing, 
"  I  languish  for  the  ocean — 

I  pine  to  view  the  billow's  heaving  crest  • 
I  miss  the  music  of  its  dreamlike  motion, 

That  lulled  to  rest. 
"  W'here  are  the  bright  waves  playing  1 

Where  sleeps  the  cavern's  still  and  gem-lit  gloom  1 
For  there  I  know  sweet  tones,  yet  sad,  are  straying, 

That  call  me  home  !" 
In  vain  thy  plaintive  sighing, 
•    Lone  ocean-sprite  !  thy  home  is  far  away  ; 
No  ocean-music  giveth  sweet  replying 

Unto  thy  lay. 
Far  off  the  waves  are  gleaming ; 

Thy  sisters  deck  with  pearls  their  tresses  fair, 
And  gem-light  through  the  ocean-caves  is  stream- 

Thou  art  not  there  !  [ing 

How  like  art  thou,  sad  spirit, 

To  many  a  one,  the  lone  ones  of  the  earth  ! — 
Who  in  the  beauty  of  their  souls  inherit 

A  purer  birth  ; 
They  who,  for  ever  yearning, 

Pine  for  the  glory  of  their  far-off  home  ; 
Unto  its  half-veiled  beauty  sadly  turning, 

From  earthly  gloom. 
Whose  tones,  for  ever  swelling, 

Pour  forth  the  melody  of  burning  thought; 
From  the  sweet  music  of  that  far-off  dwelling 

An  echo  caught ! 
Like  thine  the  restless  sighing— 
Like  thine  the  melody  their  spirits  own , 
No  kindred  music  to  their  own  replying, 
'    No  answering  tone  ! 
They  dream — they  dream  for  ever  ! 

They  live  in  visions  beautiful  and  vain  ; 
And  vain  the  spirit's  passionate  endeavor 

TJ  break  their  chain. 
Yec  thou,  lone  child  of  ocean, 

Mayst  never  more  behold  thine  ocean-foam 
While  they  shall  rest  from  each  wild,  sad  emotiou 

And  find  their  home  ! 


REBECCA    S.    NICHOLS. 


Miss  REBECCA  S.  REED,  now  Mrs.  NICHOLS, 
is  a  nativ-e  of  the  little  town  of  Greenwich, 
in  New  Jersey,  where  her  fa'her  was  a  phy 
sician.  When  she  was  seventeen  years  of 
age,  Dr.  Reed  removed  to  Kentucky,  and  a 
few  months  afterward  she  was  married,  in 
Louisville,  to  Mr.  W.  Nichols,  of  Homer,  in 
New  York.  Her  first  appearance  as  an  au 
thor  was  under  the  signature  of  "Ellen,"  in 
the  Louisville  News  Letter,  in  1839.  In  the 
same  year  Mr.  Nichols  removed  to  St.  Louis, 
where  he  established  The  Pennant,  a  daily 
gazette,  from  which  in  a  few  months  he 
withdrew  and  went  to  Cincinnati,  where  he 
has  since  resided. 


In  1844,  Mr.  Nichols  published  a  "volume 
entitled  Bernice,  or  the  Curse  of  Minna,  and 
other  Poems,  and  she  has  since  been  a  fre 
quent  contributor  to  the  periodicals,  tinder 
her  proper  signature  and  under  that  of  "Kate 
Cleveland."  Bernice  is  a  romantic  story,  in 
three  cantos.  The  scene  is  in  Italy  ;  and  the 
poem  contains  some  striking  passages,  but 
none  that  should  add  to  the  good  reputation 
she  has  acquired  by  her  minor  pieces,  many 
of  which  are  evidently  the  offspring  of  real 
emotion,  and  bear  to  that  the  relation  of  expe 
rience  to  the  fictitious  passion  of  the  stage. 
Some  of  her  best  pieces  were  first  published  ii) 
The  Guest,  a  journal  of  which  she  was  editress 


TO  MY  BOY  IN   HEAVEN. 

I  GAZKD  upon  thee  !     Was  it  rigid  Death 

That  sat  enthroned  upon  thine  icy  brow  1 
Ah  no  !   methought  I  saw  the  living  breath 

Of  life  expand  thy  heaving  breast  but  now : 
He  sleeps !  tread  softly — wake  him  not ;  how  bright 

These  dreams  of  heaven  upon  his  spirit  fall  ! 
They  fold  it  slumbering  'ne.ath  their  wings  of  light, 

And  bear  it  up  to  Heaven's  high  festival — 
The  festival  of  dreams — where  spirits  hold 

Their  deep  cornmunings,  when  the  seraph  Sleep 
Spreads  his  encircling  wings,  which  softly  fold 

The  earth  to  rest,  and  close  the  eyes  that  weep. 

It  was  a  fearful  dream  :  methought  ye  said 

That  he—  my  boy — was  of  the  earth  no  more  ! 
That  all  the  sentinels  of  life  had  fled, 

And  that  pale  Death  their  portals  guarded  o'er: 
Ye  deemed  that  I  should  weep — but  not  a  tear 

Burst  from  the  frozen  founts  where  they  were  pent, 
Though  dark,  foreboding  thought  and  bitter  fear 

Rushed  to  my  heart,  and  bade  my  soul  lament. 
He  is  not  dead — he  sleeps  :  he  could  not  die, 

So  loved,  so  beautiful  !     If  Death  should  bear 
His  spirit  hence,  e'en  to  his  native  sky, 

My  voice  would  pierce  the  inner  temples  there ! 
He  is  not  dead  !     Ah,  how  my  spirit  mocks 

The  \am  delusion  !    Can  I  look  on  this,   [locks  1 
And  doubt  whose  hand  each  charmed  vein  now 

I  dare  not  claim  what  Death  hath  sealed  as  his: 
And  thus  I  gave  thee,  Arthur,  to  the  tomb, 

And  saw  the  brow  oft  pillowed  next  my  heart 
Laid  down  amid  the  dust  and  darkling  gloom, 

To  be,  alas  !  too  soon  of  dust  a  part ! 
I  saw  them  heap  the  earth  about  thy  form, 

And  press  the  light  turf  o'er  thy  peaceful  breast, 
Then  leave  thee  to  the  cold  and  brooding  worm, 

A.S  some  young  d-.»ve  in  a  deserted  nest. 


I  gazed  :  it  was  the  autumn's  golden  light    [home 

That  flung  bright  shadows  o'er  thy  new-made 
While  through  the  trees  that  waved  in  colors  bright, 

I  heard  the  low  sweet  winds  thy  dirges  moan  ! 
And  there  was  one  looked  with  me  on  that  scene, 

Who  bade  me  know  our  bitter  loss  thy  gain  : 
But  ah  !  his  cheek  was  pale  as  mine,  I  ween, 

And  from  his  eyes  the  hot  tears  fell  like  rain. 
That  eve,  while  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky, 

One  bright  new  star  looked  out  from  its  lone 

sphere  : 
We  knew  no  name  to  call  the  stranger  by, 

So  gave  it  thine,  and  deemed  that  thou  wert  near. 

The  autumn  passed  :  how  desolate  was  earth  ! 

How  froze  the  lucid  veins  upon  her  brow  ! 
While  oft  the  spectre  winds  now  wandered  forth 

Like  unseen  spirits,  treading  sad  and  slow : 
Dark,  hoary  winter  came,  with  piercing  breath, 

And  gave  to  earth  a  passionless  embrace — 
Ah  me  !  'twas  as  the  lip  of  white-browed  Death 

Had  kissed  with  fondness  some  beloved  face : 
The  dazzling  snow-wreath  garlanded  thy  tomb, 

While  each  pale  star,  effulgent  as  the  day, 
Let  forth  its  glittering  beams  amid  the  gloom, 

And  dimpled  earth,  where  this  white  splendor  lay. 

I  left  thee  :  wooed  to  that  rich  southern  clime 

Where  glows  the  orange  and  where  blooms  the 
The  land  of  passion,  where  the  brow  of  time  [rose; 

Dims  not,  but  with  renewed  splendor  glows — 
The  joyous  Spring  on  her  triumphal  car 

Rode  through  the  land  in  beauty  and  in  light, 
And  on  the  young  south  wind  flung  wide  and  far 

The  odor  of  her  flowers — her  spirit's  young  delight. 
I  rested  not,  though  all  was  bright  and  green, 

For  still  I  heard  thy  gentle  voice's  moan  : 
My  spirit  leaped  the  darkling  space  between, 

And  knelt,  all  breathless,  by  thy  twilight  home ! 
316 


REBECCA    S.  NICHOLS. 


317 


One  year  hath  flown — one  little  circ'ing  year — 

A  dim,  faint  shadow  of  the  wing  of  Time ; 
Nor  hath  mine  eye  forgot  the  secret  tear, 

Or  heart  to  weave  the  sad  and  mournful  rhyme : 
I  stand  heside  thee — and  I  quickly  trace 

The  loving  hand  that  hath  been  busy  here. 
Who  gave  such  beauty  to  thy  dwelling-place, 

And  bade  the  fresh  green  grass  wave  lightly  there '! 
My  heart  is  ful!,  nor  can  I  say  farewell, 

E'en  to  thy  gentle  shade,  oh  spirit  bright ! 
W  ithout  one  prayer  for  him  who  wove  the  spell 

Of  loveliness  where  all  was  rayless  night. 

Not  unremembered,  then,  thy  narrow  home 

Within  the  city  of  the  voiceless  dead; 
For  hither  oft  a  kindred  form  would  roam, 

And  place  fresh  turf  above  thy  fair  young  head. 
I  stand  beside  thee  ! — and  again  the  dreams 

Of  olden  time  rise  up  before  my  view, 
While  lulling  sounds,  like  to  the  voice  of  streams 

Float  o'er  my  soul,  soft  as  the  morning  dew : 
Could  prayers  or  tears  of  mine  but  win  thee  now 

From  thy  high  walk  around  the  starry  thrones, 
So  selfish  this,  my  tears  would  cease  to  flow — 

My  voice  refuse  to  falter  forth  the  tones. 


MY  SISTER  ELLEN. 

SFSTER  ET.LKX,  I've  been  dreaming 

Of  a  fair  and  happy  time ; 
Gentle  thoughts  are  round  me  gleaming, 

Thoughts  of  sunny  girlhood's  prime  : 
Oh,  the  light,  untutored  fancies, 

Images  so  quaint  and  bold — 
Dim  out  ines  of  old  romances, 

Forming  childhood's  age  of  gold  ! 
Eternal  spring  was  then  above  us, 

Sunshine  cheered  our  every  path  ; 
None  then  knew  us  but  to  love  us — 

Winning  ways  sweet  childhood  hath. 
Thou  art  little  Ne'ly,  looking 

Up  into  my  anxious  fane— 
I  thy  childish  caprice  brooking, 

As  thy  merry  thoughts  I  trace  : 
See  thy  dreamy  blue  eyes  glancing 

From  thy  founts  of  light  and  glee, 
And  thy  little  feet  go  dancing 

Like  the  waves  upon  the  sea  ! 
Tossing  from  thy 'snowy  shoulder 

Golden  curls  with  witching  grace, 
Charming  every  new  beholder 

With  thine  arch,  expressive  face. 
Sister  Ellen  !  I've  been  dreaming 

Of  some  lightsome  summer  eves, 
When  the  harvest-moon  was  beaming 

Softly  through  the  dewy  leaves — 
How  among  the  flowers  we  wandered, 

Treading  light  as  summer  air  ; 
Looking  upward,  how  we  pondered 

On  the  dazzling  glories  there  ! 
We  were  children  then  together, 

Though  I  older  was  in  years, 
And  life's  dark  and  stormy  weather 

Seemed  like  April's  smiles  and  tears. 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY 

HAUK  !  a  solemn  bell  is  pealing 

From  the  far-off  spirit  clime ; 
Angel  forms,  expectant,  kneeling 

On  the  outer  shores  sublime, 
Hither  turn  their  eyes  of  splendor 

Piercing  through  the  mists  of  time  ! 
Thou  art  faintly,  sadly  sighing, 

Voyager  through  time  with  me; 
Can  it  be,  thou  'rt  sinking — dying  ? 

Can  it  be  that  I  arn  free — 
Free  to  drink  in  life  immortal, 

Unrestrained  now  by  thee  I 

Yes  !  thine  earthly  days  are  numbered, 
Yet  thou  'rt  clinging  round  me  still ; 

Still  my  drooping  wings  are  cumbered 
By  thy  weak  and  fleshly  will : 

Gently  thus  I  loose  thy  claspings, 
Wishing  thee  no  further  ill. 

Though  I  've  often  bent  upon  thee 

A  rebuking  spirit  s  gaze, 
When  thy  spell  was  fully  on  me, 

In  our  early,  youthful  days, 
Sad  and  loath  I  am  to  leave  thee, 

Treading  Death's  bewildering  maze  ! 

All  of  enmity  is  banished 

As  I  hear  thee  moaning  low, 
Pride  and  beauty  have  so  vanished, 

Nothing  can  revive  them  now  : 
See  the  hand  of  death  triumphing 

In  the  dews  upon  thy  brow  ! 

Ah  !  thy  hoart  is  faintly  tolling, 

Like  a  closely  muffled  bell, 
And  the  purple  rivers  rolling 

'Neath  thy  bosom's  gentle  swell, 
Flow  like  waters  when  receding 

From  a  thirsty,  springless  well. 

\Vhat  a^veight  is  on  thy  bosom — 
What  a  palsy  in  thy  hand  ! 

Thus  Death  chilled  fair  Eden's  blossom- 
Thus,  at  his  august  command, 

All  of  human  birth  and  mixture 
Shuddering  in  his  presence  stand  ! 

Let  me,  through  thine  eyelids  closing, 
Look  once  more  upon  the  earth ; 

There  thou  soon  wilt  be  reposing, 
Borne  away  from  home  and  hearth, 

W7here  thy  footsteps  once  were  greeted 
With  the  noisy  shout  of  mirth. 

Hark  !  what  organ  tones  are  swelling 
Through  the  spirit-realm  on  high  ; 

Ransomed  souls  are  sweetly  telling 
Of  the  joys  beyond  the  sky  : 

Let  rne  here  no  longer  linger, 
When  the  heavens  are  so  nigh  ! 

Life's  companion  !  thus  we  sever — 
Our  short  pilgrimage  is  done  : 

We  shall  reunite  for  ever, 

Travel-stained  and  weary  one, 

WThen  the  voice  of  God  Eternal 
Wakes  the  dead  with  trumpet  lone 


318 


REBECCA    S.   NICHOLS. 


LAMKXT  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

"I'M  weary  and  oM,"  said  the  dying  Year. 

As  the  sceptre  fell  from  his  shrunken  hand ; 
'»  One  foot  on  the  earth,  and  one  on  the  bier, 
f  go,  with  a  wail  for  the  beautiful  here, 

To  the  phantom  years  in  the  ghostly  land. 

Thou  ht,  like  a  river  swift,  sweeps  o'er  me  now ; 

Backward  I'm  borne  to  the  eve  of  my  birth: 
Smooth,  then,  rny  wrinkled  cheek,  spotless  my  brow; 
St  >od  I,  with  steady  hand,  held  to  the  plough, 

Ready  to  furrow  the  beautiful  earth  ! 

Then,  as  I  sped  a'ong,  softly  there  came 

One  with  a  flowing  robe,  silken  and  green ; 
Sweet  was  her  siren  voice — Spring  was  her  name : 
Sun-hine  or  shade,  she  was  ever  the  same — 
Dazzling  in  beauty,  and  graceful  in  mien. 

Bride  of  my  youthful  days,  gentle  and  fair, 

Low  lies  thy  grave  at  the  portals  of  Time  ! 
Wrapt  in  t'.iy  shroud  of  long  sunshiny  hair, 
The  hours  upborne  by  the  wings  of  the  air, 
Entombed  thee  in  love,  singing  dirges  sublime. 

There  on  thy  bosom  wan,  pu'se'ess  and  cold, 

Lay  thy  three  doves  at  rest,  which  thou  didst  bear; 
First-born  of  early  love — lambs  of  our  fold, 
How,  on  their  scented  breath,  Death  feasted  bold  ! 
E'en  May,  the  youngest  one,  fairest,  was  there. 

Then,  as  I  turned  aside,  weeping  for  thee, 

Swift  came  another  maid,  laughing  and  bright; 
She  on  my  bosom  hung,  joyous  and  free, 
And  in  her  dulcet  tones  warbled  to  me — 
Pouring  her  heart  out  in  strains  of  delight. 

Bride  of  my  sober  prime,  faded  and  gone, 

Thou  wert  to  me  as  a  beautiful  dream  ! 
Love  in  thy  spirit  dwelt,  free  on  his  throne, 
Held  bv  thy  ravishing  sweetness  alone, 

Till  thou  wert  engulfed  in  oblivion's  stream. 
Sad,  then,  my  spirit  grew  —  lonely  I  sighed  ; 

All  that  I  loved  on  earth  fled  from  my  grasp: 
Spring,  in  her  beauty,  first  mournfully  died — 
Summer  I  buried,  too,  close  by  her  side, 

Wrenching  the  links  of  affection's  strong  clasp. 
Thin  grew  my  whitened  beard — moistened  my  eye; 

Faint  was  my  voice's  tone  —  languished  my  heart: 
Then,  in  my  dreary  age,  Autumn  drew  nigh, 
Like  a  sweet  antjel  of  love  from  the  sky, 

Ready  to  act  the  Samaritan's  part. 

Oh,  she  with  wisdom  soothed  !  cheerful  her  voice, 

Riirjiii'T  at  morn  like  a  c'ear  matin-bell  ; 
Streams  in  my  Summer's  path  seemed  to  rejoice; 
Spring  was  my  first  and  my  earliest  choice, 

But  Autumn  I  loved  with  a  fervor  as  well. 
Oft  when  the  "'lowing  stars — footprints  of  God — 

Lit  up  the  earth  with  a  holier  li^ht, 
We  o'er  each  p'e;ts;mt  place  falt'riim-ly  trod, 
Wailing  the  fate  of  the  brown,  fading  sod, 

That  shrunk  from  our  steps  as  if  fearing  a  blight 
Down  by  a  Hashing  rill,  winding  in  shade, 

Leaping  t>  sun'uht  in  g'adness  and  mirth, 
We,  in  a  softened  mo; id,  pleasantly  made 
A  coach,  where  the  streamlet  a  monodv  played  — 

A  death  song  for  one  of  the  brightest  of  earth  ! 


Pale  grew  the  berries  red,  close  at  our  feet; 

Wan  looked  the  waning  moon  over  our  head ; 
Then  moaned  the  hollow  winds,  winged  and  fleet, 
And  Autumn  unfolded  her  white  winding-sheet, 

While  Winter  approached  and  enshrouded  the 

dead  ! 
As  I  in  voiceless  grief  over  her  hung, 

Through  her  half-frozen  lips  broken  words  earner 
Sweeter  than  all  that  the  minstrel  has  sung, 
The  death-stricken  accents  that  fell  from  her  tongue, 

For  even  in  death  she  was  lisping  my  name  ! 

Down  by  her  yawning  tomb,  wrinkled  with  care, 

Cheerless  and  lone  I  sat,  stricken  and  old ; 
While  my  shrill  piping  voice  poured  on  the  air 
Tones  like  the  voice  of  the  spectre  Despair, 
Calling  his  flock  to  their  desolate  fold  ! 

Then  did  I  journey  on,  leaning  the  while 
Faintly  on  Winter's  staff,  goaded  by  him : 

Ne'er  on  my  shrivelled  lips  glimmered  a  smile — 

Weari'y  traveled  we  many  a  mi'e, 
The  sun  growing  dark,  and  the  stars  shining  dim. 

Through  the  old  forests  vast,  leafless  and  brown, 

Fled  we  the  sick'e  keen,  wielded  by  Time : 
Thus  ever  reapeth  he  what  hath  been  sown, 
Plucking  the  fruits  which  another  hath  grown, 
Golden  sheaves  binding  in  every  clime. 

Down  by  the  blackened  stream,  flowing  from  Death, 

Sit  I,  with  folded  hands,  waiting  my  doom  ; 
Numb  are  my  ag^d  limbs — frozen  my  breath ; 
Soon  shall  the  pearl-berried  misletoe  wreath 

Twine  its  green  arms  round  the  parted  Year's 

tomb  !" 
Thus  sighed  the  dying  year,  palsied  and  old  ; 

Feeble  and  few  "grew  the  words  that  he  spoke; 
Twelve  had  the  be  1  with  its  iron  tongue  told 
When  Time,  in  his  office  grown  fearless  and  bold, 

With  sharp-whetted  scythe  cut  him  down  at  a 
stroke  ! 


THE  ISLE   OF  DREAMS. 

I  MET  thee  in  the  Isle  of  Dreams, 

Beloved  of  my  soul — 
I  met  thee  on  the  silver  sands, 

Where  Lethean  rivers  roll ; 
And  by  the  flashing  water-falls, 

That  lulled  the  hours  asleep, 
Thy  spirit,  whispered  unto  mine 

The  vows  it  may  not  keep 

I  met  thee  in  the  Isle  of  Dreams — 

No  fairer  land  may  bloom 
Amon?  the  island-stars  that  crest 

The  midnight's  heavy  gloom  : 
The  lilies  blossomed  in  our  path, 

Wild  roses  on  the  spray. 
And  YOUIVJ:  birds  from  the  wilderness 

Sang  each  a  dreamy  lav. 

Our  steps  fell  lightly  as  we  pressed 
The  green,  enchanted  ground, 

For  love  was  swelling  in  our  hearts, 
And  in  the  air  around  : 


REBECCA   S.  NICHOLS. 


319 


All,  all  was  sunshine,  bliss,  and  light, 

Beloved  of  my  soul, 
When  in  the  Isle  of  Dreams  we  met, 

Where  Lethean  rivers  roll 

Then  tread  again  the  sounding  shores 

That  echo  in  my  dreams, 
And  walk  beneath  the  rosy  sky 

That  through  my  vision  gleams ; 
Oh  meet  me,  meet  me  yet  once  more, 

Beloved  of  my  soul, 
Within  the  lovely  Isle  of  Dreams, 

Where  Lethean  rivers  roll ! 


THE  SHADOW. 

TWICE  beside  the  crumbling  well 

Where  the  lichen  clingeth  fast — 
Twice,  the  shadow  on  them  fell, 

And  the  breeze  went  wailing  past. 
"  Shines  the  moon  this  eve  as  brightly 

As  the  harvest-moon  may  shine  ; 
Stands  each  star,  that  glimmers  nightly, 

Like  a  saint  within  its  shrine : 
Whence  the  shade  then,  whence  the  shadow  1 

Cansi  thou  tell,  sweet  lady  mine  1" 

But  the  lady's  cheek  was  pale, 

And  her  lips  were  snovvv  white, 
As  she  clasped  her  silken  veil, 

Floating  in  the  silver  light : 
Like  an  angel's  wing  it  glistened — 

Like  a  sybil  seemed  the  maid  ; 
But  in  vain  the  lover  listened, 

Silence  on  her  lips  was  laid  ! 
Though  they  moved,  no  sound  had  broken 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  glade. 

Brighter  grew  her  burning  eyes — 

Wan  and  thin  the  rounded  cheek  : 
Was  it  terror,  or  surprise, 

That  forbade  the  lips  to  speak  ? 
To  his  heart,  then,  creeping  slowly, 

Came  a  strange  and  deadly  fear; 
Words  and  sounds  profane,  unholy, 

Stole  into  his  shrinking  ear — 
And  the  moon  sunk  sudden  downward, 

Leaving  earth  and  heaven  drear  ! 

Slowly  from  the  lady's  lips 

Burst  a  deep  and  heavy  sigh — >• 
As  from  some  long,  dark  eclipse, 

Rose  the  red  moon  in  the  sky  : 
Saw  he  then  the  ladv  leaning 

Cold  and  fainting  by  the  well ; 
Eyes  once  filled  with  tender  meaning 

Closed  beneath  some  hidden  spell  : 
\\  hat  was  heard  he  dared  not  whisper, 

What  he  feared  were  death  to  tell  ! 

The  little  hand  was  wondrous  fair 
Which  to  him  so  wildly  clung — 

Raven  was  the  glossy  hair 

Then  from  off  her  forehead  flung; 

Much  too  fair  that  hand  for  staining 
With  a  crime  of  darkest  dye  : 


But  the  moon  again  is  waning 
In  the  pale  and  starless  sky — 

Hark  !  what  words  are  slowly  falling 
On  the  breeze  that  swept  them  by  1 

"  Touch  her  not !"  the  voice  it  said — 

"  Wrench  thy  mantle  from  her  grasp  f 
Thus  the  disembodied  dead 

Warns  from  that  polluting  clasp. 
Touch  her  not,  but  still  look  on  her — 

All  an  angel  seemeth  she ; 
Yet,  the  guilty  stains  upon  her 

Shame  the  Fiend's  dark  company  ! 
But,  her  hideous  crime  is  nameless 

Under  heaven's  canopy." 

Twice,  beside  the  crumbling  well, 

Where  the  lichen  clingeth  fast — 
Twice  the  shadow  on  them  fell, 

And  the  breeze  went  wailing  past: 
Twice  the  voice's  hol'ow  warning 

Pierced  the  haunted  midnight  air  ! 
Then  the  golden  light  of  morning 

Streamed  upon  the  lady  there  : 
They  who  found  her,  stark  and  lonely, 

Said  the  corse  was  very  fair. 


LITTLE  NELL. 

SPHTXG,  with  breezes  cool  and  airy, 
Opened  on  a  little  fairy  ; 
Ever  restless,  making  merry, 
She,  with  pouting  lips  of  cherry, 
Lisped  the  words  she  could  not  master, 
Vexed  that  she  might  speak  no  faster — 
Laughing,  running,  playing,  dancing, 
Mischief  all  her  joys  enhancing — 
Full  of  baby-mirth  and  glee, 
It  was  a  joyous  sight  to  see 

Sweet  Little  Nell ! 

Summer  came,  the  green  earth's  lover, 
Ripening  the  tufted  clover — 
Calling  down  the  glittering  showers, 
Breathing  on  the  buds  and  flowers — • 
Rivalling  young  pleasant  May 
In  a  generous  holvday  ! 
Smallest  insects  hummed  a  tune 
Through  the  blessi'-d  nights  of  June  : 
And  the  maiden  sang  her  song 
Through  the  days  so  bright  and  long — 
Dear  Little  Nell  ! 

Autumn  came  !  the  leaves  were  falling- 
Death  the  little  one  was  calling  : 
Pale  and  wan  she  grew,  and  weakly, 
Bearing  all  her  pains  so  meekly, 
That  to  us  she  seemed  still  dearer 
As  the  trial-hour  drew  nearer. 
But  she  left  us  hopeless,  lonely, 
Watching  by  her  semblance  only  : 
And  a  little  grave  they  made  her. 
In  the  churchyard  cold  they  laid  her— 
Laid  her  softly  down  to  rest, 
With  a  white  rose  on  her  breast — 
Poor  Little  Nell ! 


320 


REBECCA    S.   NICHOLS. 


THK   LITTLE  FLOCK. 

"  WE  were  not  many" — we  who  stood 

In  childhood  round  our  mother's  knee — 
\  laughing,  wild,  and  wayward  brood 
Of  many  a  changeful  mind  and  mood, 
And  hearts  as  light  as  hearts  could  be. 

"  We  were  not  many" — we  who  played, 

When  breathless  came  the  scorching  noon, 
Out  in  the  leafy,  grassy  shade, 
The  old  and  fragrant  orchard  made, 
As  lengthened  shadows  fell  in  June. 

How  sweetly  smelled  the  upturned  mould 

Beneath  the  green  and  bending  bough, 

For  there,  when  days  were  moist  and  cold, 

The  grass  was  sown  ere  spring  was  old — 

I'd  give  the  world  to  see  it  now  ! 

"  We  were  not  many" — we  who  drew 
At  evening  round  the  blazing  hearth, 
To  read,  how  from  the  harebells  blue 
The  tiny  elves  would  drink  the  dew, 
Ere  fairy  forms  forsook  the  earth. 

"  We  were  not  many" — we  who  heard, 
From  lips  we  loved  at  eve  and  morn, 

The  teachings  of  the  holy  word, 

When  youthful  hearts  to  prayer  were  stirred, 
And  love  of  meek-eyed  Faith  was  born. 

"  We  were  not  many" — death  has  spared 

A  larger  flock  to  mother's  tears, 
And  when  his  icy  arm  was  bared, 
We  scarcely  thought  that  he  had  dared 

To  touch  the  one  so  young  in  years. 

"  We  were  not  many" — we  who  wept 

To  see  his  star  in  swift  decline  : 
Five  golden  autumns  he  has  slept — 
Five  budding  springs  the  moss  has  crept 

Around  his  couch  beneath  the  pine. 

"  We  are  not  many" — when  we  stand 

Where  now  he  sleeps,  at  fall  of  dew ; 
When  loving  May,  with  breezes  bland, 
Has  smoothed  the  turf  with  angel  hand, 
And  decked  it  round  with  violets  blue. 

•'  We  are  not  many" — we  who  press 

With  trembling  lips  Life's  brimming  cup: 

One  craving  draughts  of  happiness — 

Another,  it  may  be,  would  bless 

The  wave  that  dashed  death's  waters  up. 

"  We  are  not  many" — doubts  and  fears, 

And  faded  hopes  of  earth's  renown, 
And  broken  faith,  and  toil  and  tears, 
Have,  iii  the  winepress  of  our  years, 

Been  heaped,  and  crushed,  and  trodden  down ! 
•'  We  were  not  many" — we  who  stood 

lu  childhood  round  our  mother's  knee  : 
But  one  from  out  the  laughing  brood 
Has  borne  unto  his  solitude 

The  dreams  he  drcampt  in  infancy. 


MUSINGS. 

How  like  a  conqueror  the  king  of  day 

Folds  back  the  curtains  of  his  orient  couch, 
Bestrides  the  fleecy  clouds,  and  speeds  his  way 

Through   skies   made    blighter   by  his  burning 

touch  ; 
For  as  a  warrior  from  the  tented  field, 

Victorious  hastes  his  wearied  limbs  to  rest, 
So  doth  the  sun  his  brazen  sceptre  yield, 

And  sink,  fair  night,  upon  thy  gentle  breast. 

All  hail,  sad  Vesper  !  on  thy  girdled  throne 

Thou  sitst  a  queen.     Oh,  twilight  watcher-star, 
With  gliding  step  thou  comest  forth  alone, 

Pale,  dreamy  dweller  of  the  realms  afar ; 
And  when  at  eve's  most  holy,  chastened  hour, 

I  watch  each  lesser  star  within  its  shrine, 
How  do  I  miss  the  strange,  mysterious  power 

That  chains  my  spirit  to  thine  orb  divine. 

Fair  Vesper  !  when  thy  golden  tresses  gleam 

Amid  the  banners  of  the  sunset  sky, 
Thy  spirit  floats  on  every  radiant  beam 

That  gilds  with  beauty  thy  sweet  home  on  high  : 
Then  hath  my  soul  its  hour  of  deepest  bliss, 

And    gentle    thoughts    like    angels    round    me 

throng, 
Breathing  of  worlds  (oh,  how  unlike  to  this  !) 

Where  dwells  eternal  melody  and  song. 

Star  of  the  twilight !  thou  wert  loved  by  one 

Whose  spirit  late  hath  passed  away  from  earth, 
Who  parted  from  us  when  the  wailing  tone 

Of  some   lone  winds   hushed   gentle   summer's 

mirth  : 
Yet,  though  we  missed  her  at  the  eventide, 

And  eyes  gazed  sadly  on  the  vacant  chair, 
Though  from   the  hearth  her  music-tones  have 
died, 

And  gone  glad  laughter  that  resounded  there — 

Still  from  her  high  and  holy  place  above 

None  would  recall  her  to  this  earthly  sphere, 
Or  seek  to  win  her  from  that  home  of  love 

To  tread  the  paths  of  sin  and  sorrow  here  : 
But  clouds   are   gathering   round  fair  Cynthia's 
home, 

And  dark  and  heavy  grows  the  sultry  air, 
While,  one  by  one,  the  lights  in  yon  vast  dome 

Fade  and  go  out  as  Death  were  busy  there. 

And  she,  pale  spirit  of  the  midnight  skies, 

Whose  tears  of  light  were   streaming  o'er  the 

heath, 
Now  seems,  unto  my  wakeful,  watching  eyes, 

Like  some  lone  weeper  in  the  house  of  death  ! 
The  storm  hath  burst — the  lightning's  angry  eye 

Glanceth  around  me,  and  the  hoarse  winds  tell 
The  raging  tempest  s  might  and  majesty. 

Bright  thoughts  have  vanished — gentle  star,  faro- 
well ! 


- 


JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

(Born  1819). 


MRS.  JULIA  HOWE  is  a  daughter  of  the 
late  eminent  banker  Samuel  Ward,  and  a  sis 
ter  of  Samuel  Ward,  junior,  one  of  our  most 
accomplished  scholars.  In  the  spring  of 
1543  she  was  married  to  Dr.  S.  G.  Howe, 
of  Boston,  so  well  known  to  his  countrymen, 
and  indeed  to  mankind,  as  one  of  the  most 
active  and  wise  of  living  philanthropists. 
Mrs.  Howe  was  educated  by  the  best  mas 
ters,  and  her  native  intelligence  rewarded  a 
careful  culture  with  fruits  of  grace  and  beau 
ty  which  detain  the  admiration  of  society. 
One  of  her  teachers  was  the  much-lamented 
Schlesinger,  of  whom  an  elegant  memoir 
was  published  by  Mr.  Ward,  at  the  close  of 
which  he  observes:  "Returning  to  New  York 
from  a  visit  to  Boston,  on  the  morning  of  the 
twelfth  of  June,  the  writer  of  this  memoir 
was  overpowered  by  the  sad  intelligence  of 
'.he  demise  of  Mr.  Schlesinger  —  whom  he 
loved  as  a  brother,  and  of  whose  danger  he 


had  no  suspicion.  He  gradually  gaihered 
from  a  pupil  of  the  deceased,  that  he  had 
died  in  the  night  of  the  eighth,  and  been  bu 
ried,  the  Sunday  after,  in  the  Marble  Ceme 
tery,  whither  his  mortal  remains  were  fol 
lowed  by  his  friends  and  his  Brothers  of  the 
'  Concordia,'  who  sang  a  requiem  over  his 
grave.  When  he  asked  her  for  further  de 
tails,  turning  away  to  hide  her  tears,  she 
handed  him  these  lines."  The  pupil  here 
referred  to  is  Mrs.  Howe,  and  the  lines  are 
the  poem  entitled  The  Burial  of  Schlesinger, 
which  may  be  ranked  among  the  finest  pro 
ductions  of  feminine  genius. 

Mrs.  JuliaWard,  the  mother  of  Mrs.  Howe> 
was  a  woman  of  taste  and  various  acquire 
ments,  and  her  literary  abilities  are  illustra 
ted  in  many  brilliant  occasional  poems,  in 
English  and  French,  of  which  some  speci- 

I  mens  are  furnished  in  an  earlier  part  of  the 

i  present  volume. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SCHLESINGER. 

SAD  music  breathes  upon  the  air, 

And  steps  come  mournfully  and  slow ; 

Heavy  is  the  load  we  bear, 

Fellow-men  our  burthen  share, 
Death  has  laid  our  brother  low. 

Ye  have  heard  our  joyous  strain, 
Listen  to  our  notes  of  wo ! 

Do  ye  not  remember  him 
Whose  finger,  from  the  thrilling  wire, 
Now  drew  forth  tears,  now  tones  of  fire  ] 
Ah  !  that  hand  is  cold  for  ever : 
Gone  is  now  life's  fitful  fever — 
We  sing  his  requiem. 

We  are  singing  .him  to  rest — 
He  will  rise  a  spirit  blest. 

Sing  it  softly,  sing  it  slowly — 
Let  each  note  our  sorrow  tell, 
For  it  is  our  last  farewell,     ' 

And  his  grave  is  lone  and  lowly. 

We  sorrow  for  thee,  brother ! 

We  grieve  that  thou  must  lie 
Far  from  the  spot  where  thy  fathers  sleep ; 
Thou  earnest  o'er  the  briny  deep 

In  a  stranger  land  to  die. 
We  bear  thee  gently,  brother, 
To  thy  last  resting-place; 
21 


Soon  shall  the  earth  above  thee  close, 
And  the  dark  veil  of  night  repose 
For  ever  on  thy  face. 

We  placed  the  last  flowers,  brother, 

Upon  thy  senseless  brow  ; 
We  kissed  that  brow  before  't  was  hid, 
We  wept  upon  thy  coffin-lid, 

But  all  unmoved  wert  thou. 

We've  smoothed  the  green  turf,  brother, 

Above  thy  lowly  head  ; 
Earth  in  her  breast  receive  thee : 
Oh,  it  is  sad  to  leave  thee, 

Alone  in  thy  narrow  bed  ! 

Thou  art  not  with  us,  brother — 
Yet,  in  yon  blissful  land, 

Perhaps,  thou  still  canst  hear  us — • 

Perhaps  thou  hoverest  near  us 
And  smilest  as  the  choral  band, 
Which  once  obeyed  thy  master  hand, 

Now  linger  with  their  tears  to  leave 

The  sod  that  seals  thy  grave. 

The  sun  is  sinking,  brother, 

And  with  it  our  melody. 
The  dying  cadence  of  our  rite 
Is  mingled  with  the  dying  light. 
Oh,  brother !  by  that  fading  ray, 
And  by  this  mournful  parting  laj 
We  will  remember  thee. 
321 


JULIA   WARD   HOWE. 


The  sculptor,  in  his  chiselled  stone, 

The  painter,  in  his  colors  blent, 
The  hard,  in  nurnhers  all  his  own, 

Raises  himself  his  monument: 
But  he,  whose  every  touch  could  wake 

A  passion,  and  a  thought  control, 
He  who,  to  Ixess  the  ear,  did  make 

Music  of  his  very  soul ; 
Who  bound  for  us,  in  golden  chains, 

The  golden  links  of  harmony — 
IS"  aught  is  left  us  of  his  strains, 

Naught  but  their  fleeting  memory  : 
Then,  while  a  trace  of  him  remains, 

Shall  we  not  cherish  it  tenderly  ] 

WOHDSWORTH. 

BARK  of  the  unseen  haven, 

Mind  of  unearth'y  mood, 
Like  to  the  prophet's  raven, 

Thou  bringest  me  heavenly  food ; 
Or  like  some  mild  dove  winging 

Its  way  from  cloudless  skies, 
Celestial  odors  bringing, 
And  in  its  glad  soul  singing 

The  songs  of  paradise. 

Surely  thou  hast  been  nearer 

The  bounds  of  day  and  night — 
Thy  vision  has  l>een  clearer, 

And  loftier  thy  flight, 
And  thou  to  God  art  dearer 

Than  many  men  of  mi^ht. 
Speak  !  for  to  thee  we  listen 

As  never  to  bard  before, 
And  faded  eyes  shall  glisten 

That  thought  to  be  bright  no  more. 

Oh,  tell  us  of  yonder  heaven, 

And  the  world  that  lies  within ; 
Tell  us  of  the  happy  spirits 

To  whom  we  are  near  of  kin ; 
Tell  of  the  songs  of  rapture, 

Of  the  stars  that  never  set; 
Do  the  angels  call  us  brothers — 

Does  our  Father  love  us  yet  1 

Speak,  for  our  souls  are  thirsting 

For  the  light  of  righteousness ; 
Speak,  for  our  bosoms  are  bursting 

With  a  desolate  loneliness ; 
Our  hearts  are  worn  and  weary, 

Our  robes  are  travel-soiled — 
For  through  a  desert  dreary 

Our  wandering  feet  have  toiled. 

Those  to  whom  life  looks  brighter 

May  ask  an  earthHcr  strain  : 
A  gayer  spell  and  a  lighter 

Shall  hold  them  in  its  chain ; 
But  to  those  who  have  drunk  deepest 

Of  the  cup  of  joy  and  grief, 
The  tuneful  tears  thou  weepest 

Do  minister  relief. 

Speak,  for  the  earth  is  throbbing 

With  a  wild  sense  of  pain  ; 
The  wintry  winds  ar.e  sobbing 


The  requiem  of  the  slain ; 
Dimly  our  lamps  are  burning, 

And  gladly  we  list  to  thee, 
With  a  strange  and  mystic  yearning 

Toward  the  home  where  we  would  be : 
Turn  from  the  rhyme  of  weary  Time, 

And  sing  of  Eternity  ! 
Tell  of  the  sacred  mountains 

Where  prophets  in  prayer  have  kneeled  ^ 
Tell  of  the  glorious  fountains 

That  soon  shall  be  unsealed  ; 
Tell  of  the  quiet  regions 

Where  those  we  love  are  fled ; 
Tell  of  the  angel  legions 

That  guard  the  blessed  dead ! 
Tell  us  of  the  sea  of  glass, 

And  of  the  icy  river ; 
To  those  who  its  waves  must  pass 

Thy  message  of  love  deliver. 
Strike,  strike  thy  harp  of  many  lays, 
And  we  will  join  the  song  of  praise 
To  Him  that  sitteth  upon  the  throne 

Of  life  and  love  for  ever ! 

WOMAN. 

A  VESTAL  priestess,  proudly  pure, 

But  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit ; 
With  soul  all  dauntless  to  endure, 

And  mood  so  calm  that  naught  can  stir  it, 
Save  when  a  thought  most  deeply  thrilling 
Her  eyes  with  gentlest  tears  is  filling, 
Which  seem  with  her  true  words  to  start 
From  the  deep  fountain  at  her  heart. 
A  mien  that  neither  seeks  nor  shuns 

The  homage  scattered  in  her  way  ; 
A  love  that  hath  few  favored  ones, 

And  yet  for  a!l  can  work  and  pray  •, 
A  smile  wherein  each  mortal  reads 
Tlie  very  sympathy  he  needs ; 
An  eye  like  to  a  mystic  book 

Of  lays  that  bard  or  prophet  sings. 
Which  keepeth  for  the  holiest  look 

Of  holiest  love  its  deepest  things 
A  form  to  which  a  king  had  bent, 
The  fireside's  dearest  ornament — 
Known  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor 
Better  than  at,  the  rich  man's  door ; 
A  life  that  ever  onward  goes, 
Yet  in  itself  has  deep  repose. 
A  vestal  priestess,  maid,  or  wife — 

Vestal,  and  vowed  to  offer  up 
The  innocence  of  a  ho'y  life 

To  Him  who  gives  the  mingled  cup; 
With  man  its  bitter  sweets  to  share, 
To  live  and  love,  to  do  and  dare  ; 
His  prayer  to  breathe,  his  tears  to  shed, 
Breaking  to  him  the  heavenly  bread 
Of  hopes  which,  all  too  high  for  earth, 
Tluve  yet  in  her  a  mortal  birth. 
This  is  the  woman  I  have  dreamed, 
And  to  my  childish  thought  she  seeuitd 
The  woman  I  myself  should  be : 
Alas !  I  would  that  I  were  she. 


JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 


323 


TO   A  BEAUTIFUL  STATUE 

[  \VOUM>  there  were  a  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

That  I  might  deem  thee  human,  not  divine  ! 

I  would  those  sweet  yet  silent  lips  might  speak, 

Even  to  say,  "  I  never  can  be  thine  !" 

I  would  thine  eye  might  shun  my  ardent  gaze, 

Then  timidly  return  it ;  'neath  the  fold 

Of  the  white  vest  thy  heart  beat  to  the  praise 

Responsive  that  thou  heedest  not.    I  hold 

Tliy  s  enilcr  hand  in  mine :  oh,  why  is  it  so  cold  ? 
Statue  !   I  call  on  thee  !   I  bid  thee  wake 
To  lite  and  love.     The  world  is  bright  and  fair ; 
The  flowers  of  spring  blush  in  each  verdant  brake ; 
The  birds'  sweet  song  makes  glad  the  perfumed  air, 
And  thou  alone  feel'st  not  its  balmy  breath. 
Oh  !   by  what  spell,  once  dear,  still  unforgot, 
Shall  I  re  ease  thee  from  this  seeming  death?  |  «pot? 
Wnat  prayer  shall  charm  thee  from  yon  haunted 

Awake  !  I  summon  thee  !  In  vain  :  she  hears  me  not. 
V\  hat  power  hath  bound  thee  thus  ?     Devoid  of 

sense, 

Buried  in  thine  own  beauty,  speechless,  pa!e — 
V\  hat  stra.i>;e,  stern  destiny,  what  dire  offence, 
!i  ;iii  ..Lawn  around  thy  living  charms  this  veil? 
U...  -l  thou.  like  Niobe,  beho.d  the  death 
O,  a.i  tuy  loved  ones?      Did  so  sad  a  si'Jit 
I'rge  iVo.n  thv  bosom  forth  the  panting  breath, 
Stea    from  thy  tearful  eye  its  liquid  light, 

And  wrap  thy  fainting  spirit  in  eternal  night? 

Or  wert  thou  false,  and  merciless  as  fair — 
And  is  it  thus  thy  perfidy  is  wroken  ? 
Didst  thou  with  smiles  the  trusting  soul  ensnare, 
And  smile  again  to  see  it  crushed  and  broken  ! 
Oh.  no  !   Heaven  wished  to  rescue  from  the  tomb 
A  form  so  faultless;  and  its  mandate  high 
Arrested  thee  in  youth's  transcendent  bloom, 
(-'oiuealed  in  marb'.e  thy  last  parting  sigh,        [die. 
Soothed  thee  to  wakeless  sleep,  nor  suffered  thee  to 

For  sure  thou  wert  not,  always  thus!     The  rush 
01'  i.'e's  warm  strea:n  hath  lit  thy  vacant  glance, 
Tinting  t'.'.y  pallid  cheek  with  maiden  blush; 
Those  i'airv  limits  have  sported  in  the  dance, 
Before  t':iey  settled  thus  in  quiet  rest; 
Thine  ear  the  lyre's  numbers  hath  received, 
And  tod  their  import  to  the  throbbing  breast; 
Th ,  heart  hath  hoped  and  feared,  hath  joyed  and 

grieved, 
Hath  loved  and  trusted,  and  hath  been  deceived. 

Sleep  on  !     The  memory  of  thy  grief  or  wrongs 
^  ith  the  forgotten  past  have  long  since  fled  ; 
And  pitying  Fate  t'.iy  slumber  still  prolongs, 
Lest  thou  i-hou'dst  wake,  to  sorrow  for  the  dead. 
Oli.  should  thine  eyes  unclose  again  on  earth, 
To  find  ihvse  f  uncared  for,  and  alone — 
1'lip  males  of  thy  young  days  of  laughing  mirth, 
And  he,  m  re  dear  than  all,  for  ever  gone — 
V\  ith  hitter  tears  thou  'dst  ask  again  a  heart  of  stone. 
Sleep  0:1  in  peace!   thou  sha't  not  sleep  for  ever  : 
S..f)n  on  thine  cch  ling  ear  the  voice  sha'l  thri'l, 
Whose  well-known   tone   a'one  thy  bonds  inay 
And  bid  thy  spirit  burst  its  cerements  chill :  [sever, 
Thy  frozen  heart  its  pulses  shall  resume, 


Thine,  eye  with  glistening  tears  of  rapture  swell, 
Thou  shalt  arise  in  never-fading  bloom  ! 
The  voice  of  deathless  Love  must  break  the  spell : 
Until  that  time  shall  come,  sweet  dreamer,  fare  thee 
well !  _+__ 

WANING. 

THE  Moon  looks  dimly  from  the  skies, 
Of  half  her  queenlike  beauty  shorn ; 

A  sad  and  shrouded  thing,  she  lies 

Where  she,  scarce  three  weeks  since,  was  born. 

As  from  the  darkness  forth  she  sprang, 

And  it  to  her  a  cradle  gave, 
So  on  its  bosom  she  must  hang 

Trembling,  till  it  become  her  grave. 

But  while  she  sees  the  stars  so  bright, 
The  Moon  can  not  her  death  deplore, 

For  all  the  heavens  are  sown  with  light, 
Though  from  herself  it  come  no  more. 

Pale  Moon  !  and  I  like  thee  am  sinking 

Into  my  natural  nothingness  ; 
I  who,  like  thee,  from  heaven  was  drinking 

The  godlike  power  to  love  and  bless. 

This  shroud  of  night  is  dark  and  chill, 
And  yet  I  can  not  think  to  mourn ; 

The  skies  I  filled  are  radiant  still, 
And  will  be  bright  when  I  am  gone! 


LEES  FROM  THE  CUP  OF  LIFE. 

ONCE  I  was  sad,  and  well  could  weep, 
Now  I  am  wild,  and  I  will  laugh ; 

Pour  out  for  me  libations  deep ! 

The  blood  of  trampled  grapes  I'll  quaff, 

And  mock  at  all  who  idly  mourn, 
And  smite  the  beggar  with  his  staff. 

Oh  !  let  us  hold  carousal  dread 
Over  our  early  pleasures  gone, 

Youth  is  departed,  love  is  dead  ; 
Oh  wo  is  me  that  I  was  born  ! 

Yet  fill  the  cup,  pass  round  the  jest — 
Methinks  I  could  laugh  grief  to  scorn. 

'Tis  well  to  be  a  thing  alone, 

For  whom  no  creature  cares  or  grieves. 
To  bui'd  on  desert  sands  a  throne, 

And  spread  a  couch  on  wintry  leaves, 
Ruthless  and  hopeless,  worn  and  wise — 

The  fool,  the  imbecile,  believes ! 

Make  me  a  song  whose  sturdy  rhyme 
Shall  bid  defiance  bold  to  Wo. 

Though  caitiff  wretch,  come  down  to  mv , 
See,  at  thy  gate  my  trump  I  blow, 

And,  armed  with  rude  indifference, 
To  thee  thy  scornful  glove  I  throw ! 

Ah  me  !   unequal,  bootless  fii>ht ! 

Ah,  cuiras.  that  betrays  my  trust ' 
Sorrow's  stern  angel  bears  a  dart 

Fatal  to  all  of  mortal  dust; 
He  is  a  spirit,  I  of  clay  : 
He  can  not  die — alas,  I  must ' 


324 


JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 


3PEAK,  FOR  THY  SERVANT  HEARETH. 

SPEAK,  for  thy  servant  heareth ; 

Alone,  in  my  lowly  bed, 
Before  I  laid  me  down  to  rest. 

My  nightly  prayer  was  said  ; 
And  naught  my  spirit  feareth, 

In  darkness  or  by  day  : 
Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey. 

I've  stood  before  thine  altar, 

A  child  before  thy  might ; 
No  breath  within  thy  temple  stirred 

The  dim  and  cloudy  light ; 
And  still  I  knew  that  thou  wert  there, 

Teaching  my  heart  to  say — 
«  Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey." 

0  God,  my  flesh  may  tremble 
When  thou  speakest  to  my  soul ; 

But  it  can  riot  shun  thy  presence  blest, 

Or  shrink  from  thy  control. 
A  joy  my  spirit  cheereth 

That  can  not  pass  away  : 
Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey. 

Thou  biddest  me  to  utter 

Words  that  I  scarce  may  speak, 
And  mighty  things  are  laid  on  me, 

A  helpless  one  and  weak  ; 
Darkly  thy  truth  declareth 

Its  purpose  and  its  way  : 
Speak,  for  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey. 

And  shouldst  thou  be  a  stranger 

To  that  which  thou  hast  made  ? 
Oh  !  ever  be  about  my  path, 

And  hover  near  my  bed. 
Lead  me  in  every  step  I  take, 

Teach  me  each  word  I  say : 
Speak,  for  thv  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey. 

How  hath  thy  glory  lighted 

My  lonely  place  of  rest ; 
How  sacred  now  shall  be  to  me 

The  spot  which  thou  hast  blest ! 
If  aught  of  evil  should  draw  nigh 

To  bring  me  shame  and  fear, 
My  steadfast  soul  shall  make  reply, 

"  Depart,  for  God  is  near !" 

1  b/ess  thee  that  thou  speakest 

Thus  to  an  humble  child  ; 

The  God  of  Jacob  calls  to  me 

In  gentle  tones  aid  mild; 


Thine  enemies  before  thy  face 

Are  scattered  in  dismay  : 
Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey. 

I've  stood  before  thee  all  my  days — 

Have  ministered  to  thee  ; 
But  in  the  hour  of  darkness  first 

Thou  speakest  unto  me. 
And  now,  the  night  appeareth 

More  beautiful  than  day  : 
Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  heareth, 

And  heareth  to  obey. 


A  MOTHER'S  FEARS. 

I  A>I  one  who  holds  a  treasure, 
A  gem  of  wondrous  cost ; 

But  I  mar  my  heart's  deep  pleasure 
With  the  fear  it  may  be  lost. 

God  gives  not  many  mothers 

So  fair  a  child  as  thou, 
And  those  he  gives  to  others 

In  death  are  oft  laid  low. 

I,  too,  might  know  that  sorrow, 
To  stand  by  thy  dying  bed, 

And  wish  each  weary  morrow 
Only  that  I  were  dead. 

Oh !  would  that  I  could  bear  thee, 
As  I  bore  thee  'neath  my  heart, 

And  every  sorrow  spare  thee, 
And  bid  each  pain  depart ! 

Tell  me  some  act  of  merit 

By  which  I  may  deserve 
To  hold  the  angel  spirit, 

And  its  sweet  life  preserve. 

When  I  watch  the  little  creature, 
If  tears  of  rapture  flow — 

If  I  worship  each  fair  feature — 
All  mothers  would  do  so. 

And  if  I  fain  would  shield  her 
From  suffering,  on  my  breast, 

Strive  every  joy  to  yield  her, 
'Tis  thus  that  I  am  blest. 

Oh  !  for  some  heavenly  token, 

By  which  I  may  be  sure 
The  vase  shall  not  be  broken — 

Dispersed  the  essence  pure  ! 

Then  spake  the  Angel  of  Mothers 

To  me,  in  gentle  tone  : 
"Be  kind  to  the  children  of  others, 

And  thus  deserve  thine  own." 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


(Born  1821-Died  1852) 


AMELIA  B.  WELBY,  whose  maiden  name 
was  COPPUCK,  was  born  in  the  small  town 
of  St.  Michael's,  in  Maryland,  in  1821.  When 
she  was  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  her  fa 
ther  removed  to  Lexington  and  afterward  to 
Louisville,  in  Kentucky,  where,  in  1838,  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  George  B.  Welby,  a  mer 
chant  of  that  city. 

Mrs.  Welby  made  herself  known  at  a  very 
early  age  by  numerous  poetical  pieces  print 
ed,  under  the  signature  of  "Amelia,"  in  the 
Louisville  Journr'  -hich  is  edited  by  Mr. 
George  D.  Prenti  a  gentleman  deserving 
as  much  reputation  for  his  literary  abilities 
as  for  his  wit,)  and  has  been  a  medium  for 
the  original  appearance  of  much  of  the  best 
poetry  of  the  West. 

In  1844  a  collection  of  her  poems  appeared 
in  a  small  octavo  volume  at  Boston,  and  their 
popularity  has  been  so  great  that  it  has  since 
passed  through  four  or  five  large  editions. 
This  success  must  have  surprised  as  much 
as  it  gratified  th.e  amiable  and  modest  poet, 
for,  writing  to  me  in  the  summer  of  1843, 
she  observed  in  reference  to  a  suggestion  I 
had  made  to  her  —  "  My  husband  arid  friends 
here  also  desire  greatly  to  have  a  collection 
of  my  little  poems  published,  but  really  I  am 
afraid  they  are  not  worth  it.  Many  of  them 


were  written  when  I  was  so  verj  young,  that 
at  the  sober  age  of  twenty-two  I  can  scarcely 
read  them  without  a  blush."  With  the  same 
letter  she  sent  me  the  manuscript  of  one  of  her 
longest  poems,  entitled  Pulpit  Eloquence.  It 
is  now  before  me,  and  though  scarcely  a  be 
liever  in  Mr  Foe's  ingenious  speculations 
upon  "  autograpny,"  I  see  in  the  elaborate 
neatness  and  distinctness  of  her  round  and 
regular  handwriting  an  indication  of  the  pe 
culiar  character  of  her  genius,  which  delights 
in  grace  and  repose,  in  forms  of  delicacy  and 
finished  elegance. 

There  are  in  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Welby 
few  indications  of  creative  power  ;  she  walks 
the  Temple  of  the  Muses  with  no  children  of 
the  imagination  ;  but  her  fancy  is  lively,  dis 
criminating,  and  informed  by  a  minute  and 
intelligent  observation  of  nature,  and  she  has 
introduced  into  poetry  some  new  and  beau 
tiful  imagery.  Her  sentiment  has  the  rela 
tion  to  passion  which  her  fancy  sustains  to 
the  imagination.  No  painful  experience  has 
tried  her  heart's  full  energies ;  but  her  feel 
ings  are  natural  and  genuine  ;  and  we  arc 
sure  of  the  presence  of  a  womanly  spirit, 
reverencing  the  sanctities  and  immunities  of 
life,  and  sympathizing  with  whatever  ad 
dresses  the  sense  of  beautv. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

I  S03IKTIME8  have  thoughts,  in  my  loneliest  hours, 
That  lie  on  my  heart  like  the  dew  on  the  flowers, 
Of  a  ramble  I  took  one  bright  afternoon 
When  my  heart  was  as  light  as  a  blossom  in  June  ;    ', 
The  green  earth  was  moist  with  the  late  fallen  showers, 
The  hreeze  fluttered  down  and  blew  open  the  flowers, 
While  a  single  white  cloud,  to  its  haven  of  rest      j 
On  the  white  wing  of  Peace,  floated  off  in  the  west. 
As  I  threw  back  my  tresses  to  catch  the  <  ool  breeze, 
That  scattered  the  rain-drops  and  dimpled  the  seas, 
Far  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  unrolled 
Its  soli-tinted  pinions  of  purple  and  gold. 
"r\v;is  born  in  a  moment,  yet,  quick  as  its  birth, 
It  had  stretched  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 
And,  fair  as  an  angel,  it  floated  as  free, 
With  a  wing  on  the  earth  and  a  wing  on  the  sea. 
How  calm  was  the  ocean  !  how  gentle  its  swel 
Like  a  woman's  soft  bosom  it  rose  and  it  fell ; 


While  its  light  sparkling  waves,  stealing  laughingly 

o'er, 
When  they  saw  the  fair  rainbow,  knelt  down  on  the 

shore. 

No  sweet  hymn  ascended,  no  murmur  of  prayer, 
Yet  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  worship  was  there, 
And  bent  my  young  head,  in  devotion  and  love, 
'Neath  the  form  of  the  angel  that  floated  above. 

How  wide  was  the  sweep  of  its  beautiful  wings ! 
How  boundless  its  circle,  how  radiant  its  rings  ! 
If  I  looked  on  the  sky,  'twas  suspended  in  air; 
If  I  looked  on  the  ocean,  the  rainbow  was  there; 
Thus  forming  a  girdle,  as  brilliant  and  whole 
As  the  thoughts  of  the  rainbow,  that  circled  my  souL 
Like  the  wing  of  the  Deity,  calmly  unfurled, 
It  bent  from  the  cloud  and  encircled  the  world. 

There  are  moments,  I  think,  when  the  spirit  receives 
Whole  volumes  of  thought  on  its  unwritten  leaves. 
When  the  folds  of  the  neart  in  a  moment  unclose 
Like  the  innermost  leaves  from  the  heart  of  a  /ose. 
.325 


AMELIA    B.   WELBY. 


And  thus,  when  the  rainbow  had  passed  from  the  sky, 
The  thoughts  it  awoke  were  too  deep  to  pass  by ; 
It  left  my  full  soul,  like  the  wing  of  a  dove, 
All  fluttering  with  pleasure  and  fluttering  with  love. 

T  know  that  each  moment  of  raj»tt.re  or  pain 
But  shortens  the  links  in  life's  mystical  chain; 
I  know  that  my  form,  like  that  bow  from  the  wave,  i 
Must  pass  from  the  earth,  and  lie  cold  in  the  grave 
Yet  oh  !  when  Death's  shadows  my  bosom  encloud, 
\VhenIshrinkatthethoughtofthecoffinandshroud, 
May  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  my  spirit  enfold 
In  her  beautiful  pinions  of  purple  and  gold  ! 


PULPIT  ELOQUENCE- 

THE  day  was  declining :  the  breeze  in  its  g!ee 
Had  left  the  fair  blossoms  to  sing  on  the  sea, 
As  the  sun  in  its  gorgeousness,  radiant  and  still, 
Dropped  down  like  a  gem  from  the  brow  of  the  hill ; 
One  tremulous  star,  in  the  glory  of  June, 
Came  out  with  a  smile  and  sat  down  by  the  Noon, 
As  she  graced  her  blue  throne  with  the  pride  of  a  queen, 
The  smiles  of  her  loveliness  gladdening  the  scene. 

The  scene  was  enchanting  !  in  distance  away 
Rolled  the  foam-crested  waves  of  the  Chesapeake  bay, 
While  bathed  in  the  moonlight  the  village  was  seen, 
With  the  church  in  the  distance  that  stood  on  the 

green, 

The  soft-sloping  meadows  lay  brightly  unrolled 
WTith  their  mantles  of  verdure  and  blossoms  of  gold, 
And  the  earth  in  her  beauty,  forgetting  to  grieve, 
•Lay  asleep  in  her  bloom  on  the  bosom  of  eve. 

A  light-hearted  child,  I  had  wandered  away    [day  ; 
From  the  spot  where  my  footsteps  had  gambolled  all 
And  free  as  a  bird's  was  the  song  of  my  soul, 
As  I  heard  the  wild  waters  exultingly  roll, 
While,  lightening  my  heart  as  I  sported  along 
With  bursts  of  low  laughter  and  snatches  of  song, 
I  struck  in  the  pathway  half  worn  o'er  the  sod 
By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of  God. 

As  I  traced  its  green  windings,  a  murmur  of  prayer 
With  the  hymn  of  the  worshippers  rose  on  the  air, 
And,  drawn  by  the  links  of  its  sweetness  along, 
I  stood  unobserved  in  the  midst  of  the  throng : 
For  a  while  my  young  spirit  still  wandered  about 
With  the  birds  and  the  winds  that  were  singing 

without, 

But  birds,  waves,  and  zephyrs,  were  quickly  forgot 
In  one  angel-like  being  that  brightened  the  spot. 

In  stature  majestic,  apart  from  the  throng 
He  stood  in  his  beauty,  the  theme  of  my  song! 
His  cheek  pale  with  fervor — the  blue  orbs  above 
Lit  up  with  the  splendors  of  youth  and  of  love  ; 
Yet  the  heart-glowing  raptures,  that  beamed  from 

those  eyes, 

Seemed  saddened  by  sorrows  and  chastened  by  sighs, 
As  if  the  young  heart  in  its  bloom  had  grown  cold 
With  its  loves  unrequited,  its  sorrows  untold. 

Such  language  as  his  I  may  never  recall, 
But  his  theme  was  salvation — salvation  to  all: 
And  the  souls  of  a  thousand  in  ecstasv  hung  [tongue. 
On  the  manna-like  sweetness  that  dropped  from  his 


Not  alone  on  the  car  his  wild  eloquence  stole  : 
Enforced  by  each  gesture  it  sank  to  the  soul, 
Till  it  seemed  that  an  angel  had  brightened  the  sod 
And  brought  to  each  bosom  a  message  from  God. 

He  spoke  of  the  Savior :    what  pictures  he  drew  . 
The  scene  of  his  sufferings  rose  clear  on  my  view, 
The  cross,  the  rude  cross  where  he  suffered  and  died, 
The  gush  of  bright  crimson  that  flowed  from  his  side, 
The  cup  of  his  sorrows,  the  wormwood  and  gall, 
The  darknoss  that  rnant'ed  the  earth  as  a  pall, 
The  garland  of  thorns,  and  the  demon-like  crews, 
Who  knelt  as  they  scoffed  him — "  Hail,  King  of 
the  Jews !" 

He  spake,  and  it  seemed  that  his  statue-like  form 
Expanded  and  glowed  as  his  spirit  grew  warm — • 
His  tone  so  impassioned,  so  melting  his  air, 
As,  touched  with  compassion,  he  ended  in  prayer, 
His  hands  clasped  above  him,  his  blue  orbsupthrown, 
Still  pleading  for  sins  that  were  never  his  own, 
While  that  mouth,  where  such  sweetness  ineffable 

clung, 
Still  spoke,  though  expression  had  died  on  his  tongue. 

0  God  !  what  emotions  the  speaker  awoke  ! 
A  mortal  he  seemed — yet  a  deity  spoke ; 

A  man — yet  so  far  from  humanity  riven ! 
On  earth — yet  so  closely  connected  with  heaven ! 
How  oft  in  my  fancy  I  've  pictured  him  there, 
As  he  stood  in  that  triumph  of  passion  and  prayer, 
With  his  eyescloseii  in  rapture,  their  transientec  ipse 
Made  bright  by  the  smiles  that  illumined  his  lips. 

There's  a  charm  in  delivery,  a  magical  art, 
That  thrills,  like  a  kiss, from  the  lip  to  the  heart; 
'Tis  the  glance,  the  expression,  the  well-chosen  word, 
By  whose  magic  the  depths  of  the  spirit  are  stirred  ; 
Thesmile,  the  mute  gesture,  the  soul-start!ingpause, 
The  eye's  sweet  expression,  that  melts  while  it  awes, 
The  lip's  soft  persuasion — its  musical  tone — 
Oh  such  was  the  charm  of  that  eloquent  one ! 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  how  clearly  defined 
That  bay,  church,  and  village,  float  up  on  my  mind ! 

1  see  amid  azure  the  moon  in  her  pride, 

With  the  sweet  little  trembler  that  sat  by  her  side ; 
I  hear  the  blue  waves,  as  she  wanders  along, 
Leap  up  in  their  gladness  and  sing  her  a  song, 
And  I  tread  in  the  pathway  half  worn  o'er  the  sod 
By  the  feet  that  went  up  to  the  worship  of  God. 

The  time  is  long  past,  yet  what  visions  I  see ! 
The  past,  the  dim  past,  is  the  present  to  me ;  [throng  : 
I  am  standing  once  more  mid  that  heart-stricker. 
A  vision  floats  up — 'tis  the  theme  of  my  song — 
All  glorious  and  bright  as  a  spirit  of  air, 
The  light  like  a  halo  encircling  his  hair; 
As  I  catch  the  same  accents  of  sweetness  and  love, 
He  whispers  of  Jesus,  and  points  us  above. 

How  sweet  to  my  heart  is  the  picture  I've  traced 
Its  chain  of  bright  fancies  seemed  almost  efface 
Till  Memory,  the  fond  one,  that  sits  in  the  soul, 
Took  up  the  frail  links,  and  connected  the  whole : 
As  the  dew  to  the  blossom,  the  bud  to  the  bee, 
As  the  scent  to  the  rose,  are  those  memories  to  me ; 
Round  the  chords  of  my  heart  they  have  tremblingly 
And  the  echo  it  gives  is  the  song  I  have  sung,  [clung, 


AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 


327 


ON  ENTERING  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE. 


H 


!  for  mv  heart-b'ood  curdles  as  we  enter 


To  glide  in  gloom  these  shadowy  realms  about ; 
Oh !  what  a  scene  the  round  globe  to  its  centre, 

To  form  this  awful  cave,  seems  hollowed  out ! 
Yet  pause — no  mystic  word  hath  yet  been  spoken 

To  win  us  entrance  to  this  awful  sphere — 
A  whispered  prayer  must  be  our  watchword  token, 
And  peace — like  that  around  us — peace  unbroken 

The  passport  here. 
And  now  farewell,  ye  birds  and  b'ossoms  tender, 

Ye  glistening  leaves  by  morning  dews  impearled, 
And  you,  ye  beams  that  light  with  softened  splendor 

The  glimmering  glories  of  yon  outer  world  ! 
While  thus  we  pause  these  silent  arches  under, 

To  you  and  yours  a  wild  farewell  we  wave, 
For  oh  !  perhaps  this  awful  spot  may  sunder 
Our  hearts  from  all  we  love — this  world  of  wonder 

May  be  our  grave. 
And  yet  farewell!   the  faint'y  flickering  torches 

Light  our  lone  footsteps  o'er  the  si'ent  sod; 
And  now  all  hail,  ye  ever  asting  arches, 

Ye  dark  dominions  of  an  unseen  God  ! 
Who  would  not  for  this  sight  the  bliss  surrender 

Of  all  the  beauties  of  yon  sunny  sphere, 
And  break  the  sweetest  ties,  however  tender, 
To  be  the  witness  of  the  silent  splendor 

That  greets  us  here  ! 
Ye  glittering  caves,  ye  high,  o'erhangmg  arches, 

A  pilgrim-band  we  glide  amid  your  gloom, 
With  breathless  lips,  and  high,  uplifted  torches, 

All  fancifu.ly  decked  in  cave-costume; 
Far  from  theday'sglad  beams,  and  songs,  and  flowers, 

We've  come  with  spell-touclied  hearts,  ye  countless 
To  glide  enchanted,  for  a  few  brief  hours,  [caves, 
Through  the  calm  beauty  of  your  awful  bowers 

And  o'er  your  waves  ! 
Beautiful  cave  !   that  all  my  soul  entrances, 

Known  as  the  wonder  of  the  West  so  long, 
Oh  'twere  a  fate  beyond  my  wildest  fancies, 

Could  I  but  shrine  you  now  as  such  in  song ! 
But  'tis  in  vain — the  untaught  child  of  Nature, 

I  can  not  vent  the  thoughts  that  through  me  flow, 
Yet  none  the  less  is  graved  thine  every  feature 
Upon  the  wild,  imaginative  creature 

That  hails  you  now  ! 
Pa'ace  of  Nature  !  with  a  poet's  fancies 

I  ?ve  oftimes  pictured  thee  in  dreams  of  bliss, 
And  glorious  scenes  were  given  to  my  glances, 

But  never  gazed  I  on  a  scene  like  this  ! 
Compared  with  thine,  what  are  the  awi'ul  wonders 

Of  the  deep,  fathomless,  unbounded  sea] 
Or  ih  >  storm-cloud  whose  lance  of  lightning  sunders 
The  solid  oak  ? — or  even  thine  awful  thunders, 

Niagara ! 
Hark !  hear  ye  not  those  echoes  ringing  after 

Our  gliding  steps — my  spirit  faints  with  fear— 
Those  mocking  tones,  like  subterranean  laughter— 

Or  does  the  brain  grow  wild  with  wandering  here  ? 
There  may  be  spectres  wild  and  forms  appalling 

Our  wandering  eyes,  where'er  we  rove,  to  greet — 
Methinks  I  hear  their  low,  sad  voices  calling 
Upon  us  now,  and  far  away  the  falling 
Of  phantom  feet. 


The  glittering  dome,  the  arch,  the  towering  column, 
Are  sights  that  greet  us  now  on  every  hand, 

And  all  so  wild,  so  strange,  so  sweetly  solemn — 
So  like  one's  fancies  formed  of  fairy  land  ! 

And  these,  then, are  your  works,  mysterious  powers ! 
Your  spells  are  o'er,  around  us,  and  beneath, 

These  opening  aisles,  these  crystal  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  glittering  grots,  and  high-arched,  beauteous 
As  still  as  death  !  [bowers, 

But  yet  lead  on ;  perhaps  than  this  fair  vision, 
Some  lovelier  yet  in  darkling  distance  lies — 

Some  cave  of  beauty,  like  those  realms  Elysian 
That  ofttimes  open  on  poetic  eyes ; 

Some  spot,  where  led  by  Fancy's  sweet  assistance 
Our  wandering  feet  o'er  silvery  sands  may  stray, 

Where  prattling  waters  urge  with  soft  resistance 

Their  wavelets  on,  till  lost  in  airy  distance, 
And  far  away. 

Oft  the  lone  Indian  o'er  these  low-toned  waters 
Has  bent  perhaps  his  swarthy  brow  to  lave  ! 

It  seems  the  requiem  of  their  dark-eyed  daughters, 
Those  sweet,  wild  notes  that  wander  o'er  the  wave. 

Hast  thou  no  relic  of  their  ancient  glory, 
No  legend,  lonely  cavern!  linked  with  thine? 

No  tale  of  love — no  wild,  romantic  story 

Of  some  warm  heart  whose  dreams  were  transitory 
And  sweet  as  mine  1 

It  must  be  so  :  the  thought  your  spell  enhances ; 

Yet  why  pursue  this  wild,  romantic  dream  ] 
The  heart,  afloat  upon  its  fluttering  fancies, 

Would  lose  itself  in  the  bewildering  theme. 
And  yet,  ye  waters!  still  I  list  your  surging, 

And  ever  and  anon  I  seem  to  view, 
In  Fancy's  eye,  some  Indian  maid  emerging 
Through  the  deep  gloom,  and  o'er  your  waters  urging 
Her  light  canoe. 

Oh  silent  cave  !  amid  the  elevation 
Of  lofty  thought  could  I  abide  with  thee, 

My  soul's  sad  shrine,  my  heart's  lone  habitation. 
For  ever  and  for  ever  thou  shouldst  be  : 

Here  into  song  my  every  thought  I'd  render, 
And  thou,  and  thou  alone,  shouldst  be  my  theme, 

Far  from  the  weary  world's  delusive  splendor, 

Would  not  my  lonely  life  be  all  one  tender, 
Delicious  dream  ] 

Yes,  though  no  other  form  save  mine  might  hover 
In  these  lone  halls,  no  other  whisper  roll 

Along  those  airy  domes  that  arch  me  over 
Save  gentle  Echo's,  sister  of  my  sou!,  [me, 

Yet  'neath  these  domes  whose  spell  of  beauty  weighs 
My  heart  would  evermore  in  bliss  abide  — 

No  sorrow  to  depress,  no  hojie  to  raise  me, 

Here  would  I  ever  dwell — with  none  to  praise  me, 
And  none  to  chide. 

Region  of  caves  and  streams  !  and  must  I  sever 
My  spirit  from  your  spell  1   T  were  bliss  to  stray 

The  happy  rover  of  your  realms  for  ever, 
And  yet,  farewell  for  ever  and  for  aye  ! 

I  leave  you  now,  yet  many  a  sparkling  token 
Within  your  cool  recesses  I  have  sought 

To  treasure  up  with  fancies  still  unspoken,  [broken 

Till  from  these  quivering  heartstrings  Death  hath 
The  thread  of  thought. 


AMELIA    B.   WE  LEY. 


HOPELESS  LOVE. 

THK  trembling  wavesbeneath  the  moonbeamsquiver 

Reflecting  back  the  blue,  unclouded  skies; 
The  stars  look  down  upon  the  sti  1,  bright  river, 

And  smile  to  see  themselves  in  paradise; 
Sweet  songs  are  heard  to  gush  in  joyous  bosoms, 

That  lightly  throb  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
And  glossy  plumes  float  in  amid  the  blossoms, 

And  all  around  are  happy — all  but  me  ! 

And  yet,  I  come  beneath  the  light,  that  trembles 

O'er  these  dim  paths,  with  listless  steps  to  roam 
For  here  my  bursting  heart  no  more  dissembles, 

My  sad  lips  quiver,  and  the  tear-drops  come; 
I  come  once  more  to  list  the  low-voiced  turtle, 

To  watch  the  dreamy  waters  as  they  flow, 
And  lay  me  down  beneath  the  fragrant  myrtle, 

That  drops  its  blossoms  when  the  west  winds  blow. 

Oh  !  there  is  one,  on  whose  sweet  face  I  ponder, 

One  angel-being  mid  the  beauteous  band, 
Who  in  the  evening's  hush  comes  out  to  wander 

Amid  the  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  land! 
Her  step  is  lightest  where  each  light  foot  presses, 

Her  song  is  sweetest  mid  their  songs  of  glee. 
Smiles  light  her  lips,  and  rosebuds,  mid  her  tresses, 

Look  lightly  up  their  dark  redundancy. 

Youth,  wealth,  and  fame,  are  mine:  al  I,  thaten  trances 

The  youthful  heart,  on  me  their  charms  confer; 
Sweet  lips  smile  on  me  too,  and  melting  glances 

Flash  up  to  mine — but  not  a  glance  from  her ! 
Oh,  I  wou'd  give  youth,  beauty,  fame,  and  splendor, 

My  all  of  bliss,  my  every  hope  resign, 
To  wake  in  that  young  heart  one  fee'.ing  tender — 

To  clasp  that  little  hand,  and  call  it  mine  ! 

In  this  sweet  so'itude  the  sunny  weather 

Hath  called  to  life  light  shapes  and  fairy-elves, 
The  rosebuds  lay  their  crimson  lips  together, 

And  the  green  leaves  are  whispering  to  themselves ; 
The  clear,  faint  starlight  on  the  blue  wave  flushes, 

And,  filled  with  odors  sweet,  the  south  wind  blows, 
The  purple  clusters  load  the  lilac-bushes, 

And  fragrant  blossoms  fringe  the  apple-boughs. 

Yet,  I  am  sick  with  love  and  melancholy, 

My  locks  are  heavy  with  the  dropping  dew, 
Low  murmurs  haunt  me — murmurs  soft  and  holy, 

And  oh,  my  lips  keep  murmuring,  murmuring  too ! 
I  hate  the  beauty  of  these  calm,  sweet  bowers, 

The  bird's  wild  music,  and  the  fountain's  fall; 
Oh,  I  am  sick  in  this  lone  land  of  flowers, 

My  soul  is  weary — weary  of  them  all ! 

Yet  had  I  that  sweet  face,  on  which  I  ponder, 

To  bloom  for  me  within  this  Eden-home, 
That  lip  to  sweetly  murmur  when  I  wander, 

That  cheek  to  softly  dimple  when  I  come — 
J  low  sweet  would  glide  my  days  in  these  lone  bowers, 

Far  from  the  world  and  all  its  heartless  throngs, 
Her  fairy  feet  should  only  tread  on  flowers, 

I  'd  make  her  home  melodious  with  my  songs ! 

Ah  me  !  such  blissful  hopes  once  filled  my  bosom, 
And  dreams  of  fame  could  then  my  heart  enthrall, 

And  joy  and  bliss  around  me  seemed  to  blossom  ; 
But  oh.  those  blissful  hopes  are  blighted — all ! 


No  smiling  angel  decks  these  Eden-bowers, 
No  springing  footstep  echoes  mine  in  glee — 

Oil,  I  am  weary  in  this  land  of  flowers! 
I  sigh — I  sigh  amid  them  al! — ah  me  ! 


THE  OLD  MAID. 

WHY  sits  she  thus  in  solitude?  her  heart 

Seems  melting  in  her  eye's  delicious  blue — 
And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  throbbings  through ; 
In  her  dark  eye  a  depth  of  softness  swells, 

Deeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood  wore;  ' 
And  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that  tells 

The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 

It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday  !  with  a  sigh 

Her  soul  hath  turn'd  from  youth's  luxuriant  bowers, 
And  her  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 

That  measured  out  its  links  of  golden  hours ! 
She  feels  her  inmost  soul  within  her  stir 

With  thoughts  too  wild  and  passionate  to  speak ; 
Yet  her  full  heart — its  own  interpreter — 

Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek. 
Joy's  opening  buds,  affection's  glowing  flowers, 

Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming  track ; 
Oh,  life  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours, 

And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wander  back ! 
No  !   she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 

On  pleasures  past,  though  never  more  to  be: 
Hope  links  her  to  the  future — but  the  link 

That  binds  her  to  the  past,  is  memory  ! 

From  her  lone  path  she  never  turns  aside, 

Though  passionate  worshippers  before  her  fall ; 
Like  some  pure  planet  in  her  lonely  pride, 

She  seems  to  soar  and  beam  above  them  all ! 
Not  that  her  heart  is  cold  ! — emotions  new 

And  fresh  as  flowers  are  with  her  heartstrings  knit : 
And  sweetly  mournful  pleasures  wander  through 

Her  virgin  soul,  and  softly  ruffle  it. 
For  she  hath  lived  with  heart  and  soul  alive 

To  all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and  fair ;     [hive 
Sweet  Thoughts,  like  honey-bees,  have  made  their 

Of  her  soft  bosom-cell,  and  cluster  there ; 
Yet  life  is  not  to  her  what  it  hath  been  : 

Her  soul  hath  learned  to  look  beyond  its  gloss — 
And  now  she  hovers  like  a  star  between 

Her  deeds  of  love — her  Savior  on  the  cross ! 
Beneath  the  cares  of  earth  she  does  not  bow, 

Though  she  hath  ofttimes  drained  its  bitter  cup, 
But  ever  wanders  on  with  heavenward  brow, 

And  eyes  whose  lovely  lids  are  lifted  up ! 
She  feels  that  in  that  lovelier,  happier  sphere, 

Her  bosom  yet  will,  birdlike,  find  its  mate, 
And  all  the  joys  it  found  so  blissful  here 

Within  that  spirit-realm  perpetuate. 
Yet,  sometimes  o'er  her  trembling  heartstrings  thrill 

Soft  sighs,  for  raptures  it  hath  ne'er  enjoyed — 
And  then  she.  dreams  of  love,  and  stiives  to  fill 

With  wild  and  passionate  thoughts  the  craving  void. 
And  thus  she  wanders  on — half  sad,  half  blest — 

Without  a  mate  for  the  pure,  lonely  heart, 
That,  yearning,  throbs  within  her  viigin  breast, 

Never  to  find  its  lovely  counterpart ! 


AMELIA    B.  WELBY. 


321) 


MEL  GDI  A. 

f  MKT,  once  in  my  girlish  hours, 

A  creature,  soft  and  warm  ; 
Her  cottage  bonnet,  filled  with  flowers, 

Hung  swinging  on  her  arm  ; 
Her  voice  was  sweet  as  the  voice  of  Love, 

And  her  teeth  were  pure  as  pearls, 
While  her  forehead  lay,  like  a  snow-white  dove, 

In  a  nest  of  nut-brown  curls ; 
She  was  a  thing  unknown  to  fame — 
Melodia  was  her  strange,  sweet  name. 

I  never  saw  an  eye  so  bright 

And  yet  so  soft  as  hers ; 
It  sometimes  swam  in  liquid  light, 

And  sometimes  swam  in  tears; 
It  seemed  a  beauty,  set  apart 

For  softness  and  for  sighs; 
But  oh  !  Melodia's  melting  heart 

Was  softer  than  her  eyes — 
For  they  were  only  formed  to  spread 
The  softness  from  her  spirit  shed. 

I've  gazed  on  many  a  brighter  face, 

But  ne'er  on  one,  for  years, 
Where  beauty  left  so  soft  a  trace 

As  it  had  left  on  hers. 
But  who  can  paint  the.  spell,  that  wove 

A  brightness  round  the  whole? 
'T  would  take  an  angel  from  above 

To  paint  the  immortal  soul — 
To  trace  the  light,  the  inborn  grace, 

The  spirit,  sparkling  o'er  her  face. 

Her  bosom  was  a  soft  retreat 

For  love,  and  love  alone, 
And  yet  her  heart  had  never  beat 

To  Love's  delicious  tone. 
It  dwelt  within  its  circle  free 

From  tender  thoughts  like  these, 
Waiting  the  little  deity, 

As  the  blossom  waits  the  breeze 
Before  it  throws  the  leaves  apart 
And  trembles,  like  the  love-touched  heart. 

She  was  a  creature,  strange  as  fair, 

First  mournful  and  then  wild — 
Now  laughing  on  the  clear,  bright  air 

As  merry  as  a  child, 
Then,  melting  down,  as  sort  as  even 

Beneath  some  new  control, 
She'd  throw  her  hazel  eyes  to  heaven 

And  sing  with  all  her  soul, 
In  tones  as  rich  as  some  young  bird's, 
Warbling  her  own  delightful  words. 

Melodia  !   oh  how  soft  thy  darts, 

How  tender  and  how  sweet ! 
Thy  song  enchained  a  thousand  hearts 

And  drew  them  to  thy  feet ; 
And,  as  thy  bright  lips  sang,  they  caught 

So  beautiful  a  ray, 
That,  as  I  gazed,  I  almost  thought 

The  spirit  of  thy  lay 
Had  left,  while  melting  on  the  air, 
Its  sweet  expression  painted  there. 


Sweet  vision  of  that  starry  evon  ! 

Thy  virgin  beauty  yet, 
Next  to  the  blessed  hope  of  heaven, 

Is  in  my  spirit  set. 
It  is  a  something,  shrined  apart, 

A  light  frorn  memory  shed, 
To  live  until  this  tender  heart, 

On  which  it  lives,  is  dead — 
Reminding  me  of  brighter  hours, 
Of  summer  eves  and  summer  flowers. 


TO  A  SEA-SHELL. 

SHELL  of  the  bright  sea-waves  ! 
What  is  it  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan  ? 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own  1 

Lute  of  the  ocean-caves ! 

Or  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  the  deep  windings  of  thy  chambers  dim, 
Breathing  for  ever,  in  its  mournful  hymn, 

Of  ocean's  anthem-swell  1 

Wert  thou  a  murmurer  long 
In  crystal  palaces  beneath  the  seas, 
Ere  from  the  blue  sky  thou  hadst  heard  the  breezt 

Pour  its  full  tide  of  song  1 

Another  thing  with  thee  : 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  cities  in  the  deep, 
Buried  with  flashing  gems  that  brightly  sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mighty  sea  ? 

And  say,  oh  lone  sea-shell ! 
Are  there  not  cost!y  things  and  sweet  perfumes 
Scattered  in  waste  o'er  that  sea-gulf  of  tombs  1 

Hush  thy  low  moan  and  tell. 

But  yet,  and  more  than  all — 
Has  not  each  foaming  wave  in  fury  tossed 
O'er  earth's  most  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  lost, 

Like  a  dark  funeral  pall  ? 

'  Tis  vain — thou  answerest  not ! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead ; 
'Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs  like  odors  shed, 

To  hold  them  unforgot ! 

Thine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hidden  cell 
Pined  to  be  with  the  many  things  that  dwell 

In  the  wild,  restless  main. 

And  yet  there  is  no  sound 
Upon  the  waters,  whispered  by  the  waves, 
But  seemeth  like  a  wail  from  many  graves, 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 

The  earth,  oh  moaning  shell! 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  sweet  than  these- 
The  music-gush  of  rills,  the  hum  of  bees 

Heard  in  each  blossom's  bell. 

Are  not  these  tones  of  earth, 
The  rustling  forest,  with  its  shivering  leaves, 
Sweeter  than  sounds  that  e'en  in  moonlit  eves 

Upon  the  seas  have  birth  ? 

Alas  !  thou  still  wilt  moan — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in  signs 
E'en  when  amid  bewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  from  its  own. 


830 


AMELIA    B.   WELBY. 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 

HKHK,  in  this  lonely  bower  where  first  T  won  thee, 
I  come,  beloved,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

To  gaze  once  more  through  struggling  tears  upon 
And  then  to  bear  my  broken  heart  away,    [thee, 

I  dare  not  linger  near  thee  as  a  brother, 

I  feel  my  burning  heart  would  still  be  thine ; 

Ho  w  could  I  hope  my  passionate  thoughts  to  smother, 

While  vieldirig  all  the  sweetness  to  another, 
That  should  be  mine  ! 

But  Fate  hath  willed  it;  the  decree  is  spoken  ; 

Now  life  may  lengthen  out  its  weary  chain ; 
For,  reft  of  thee,  its  loveliest  links  are  broken  , 

May  we  but  clasp  them  all  in  heaven  again  ! 
Yes,  thou  wilt  there  be  mine:  in  yon  blue  heaven 

There  are  sweet  meetings  of  the  pure  and  fond  ; 
Oh  !  joys  unspeakable  to  such  are  given, 
When  the  sweet  ties  of  love,  that  here  are  riven, 
Unite  beyond. 

A  glorious  charm  from  heaven  thou  dost  inherit; 

The  gift  of  angels  unto  thee  belongs ; 
Then  breathe  thy  love  in  music,  that  thy  spirit 

May  whisper  to  me  thro'  thine  own  sweet  songs  ; 
And  though  my  coming  life  may  soon  resemble 

The  desert  spots  through  v.  hich  my  steps  will  flee, 
Though  round  thee  then  wild  worshippers  assemble, 
My  heart  will  triumph  if  thine  own  but  tremble 
Still  true  to  me. 

Yet,  not  when  on  our  bower  the  light  reposes 
In  golden  glory,  wilt  thou  sigh  for  me — 

Not  when  the  young  bee  seeks  the  crimson  roses, 
And  the  far  sunbeams  tremble  o'er  the  sea ; 

But  when  at  eve  the  tender  heart  grows  fonder, 
And  the  full  soul  with  pensive  love  is  fraught, 

Then  with  wet  lids  o'er  these  sweet  paths  thou  'It 
wander, 

And,  thrilled  with  love,  upon  my  memory  ponder 
With  tender  thought. 

And  when  at  times  thy  birdlike  voice  entrances 
The  listening  throng  with  some  enchanting  lay, 

If  I  am  near  thee,  let  thy  heavenly  glances 
One  gentle  message  to  my  heart  convey ; 

I  ask  but  this — a  happier  one  has  taken 

From  my  lone  life  the  charm  that  made  it  dear ; 

I  ask  but  this,  and  promise  thee  unshaken 

To  meet  that  look  of  love  :  but  oh,  'twill  awaken 
Such  rapture^  here  ! 

And  now  farewell !  farevvell !  I  dare  not  lengthen 
These  sweet,  sad  moments  out;  to  gaze  on  thee 

Is  bliss  indeed,  yet  it  but  serves  to  strengthen 
The  love  that  now  amounts  to  agony ; 

This  is  our  last  farewell,  our  last  fond  meeting; 
The  world  is  wide,  and  we  must  dwell  apart ; 

My  spirit  gives  thee,  now,  its  last  wild  greeting, 

With  lip  to  lip,  while  pulse  to  pulse  is  beating, 
And  heart  to  heart. 

I  ttrewell !  farewell !  our  dream  of  bliss  is  over — 

All.  sa-e  the  memory  of  our  plighted  love; 
I  now  must  yield  thee  to  thy  happier  lover, 
Yet,  oh  remember,  thou  art  mine  above  ! 
T  i<;  3  sweet  thought,  and,  when  by  distance  parted, 


'Twill  lie  upon  our  hearts  a  holy  spell ; 
But  the  sad  tears  beneath  thy  lids  have  started, 
Arid  I — alas !  we  both  are  broken-hearted— 
Dearest,  farewell! 


MY  SISTEHS. 

LIKK  flowers  that  soft!y  bloom  together, 

Upon  one  fair  and  fragile  stem, 
Mingling  their  sweets  in  sunny  weather 

Ere  strange,  rude  hands  have  parted  them. 
So  were  we  linked  unto  each  other, 

Sweet  sisters,  in  our  childish  hours, 
For  then  one  fond  and  gentle  mother 

To  us  was  like  the  stem  to  flowers ; 
She  was  the  golden  thread  that  bound  us 

In  one  bright  chain  together  here, 
Till  Death  unloosed  the  cord  around  us, 

And  we  were  severed  far  and  near. 

The  floweret's  stem,  when  broke  or  shattered, 

Must  cast  its  b.ossoms  to  the  wind, 
Yet,  round  the  buds,  though  widely  scattered. 

The  same  soft  perfume  still  we  find; 
And  thus,  a' though  the  tie  is  broken 

That  linked  us  round  our  mother's  knee, 
The  memory  of  words  we've  spoken, 

When  we  were  children  light  and  free, 
Will,  like  the  perfume  of  each  blossom, 

Live  in  our  hearts  where'er  we  roam, 
As  when  we  s!ept  on  one  fond  bosom, 

And  dwelt  within  one  happy  home. 

I  know  that  changes  have  come  o'er  us , 

Sweet  sisters !  we  are  not  the  same, 
For  different  paths  now  lie  before  us, 

And  a'l  three  have  a  different  name; 
And  yet,  if  Sorrow's  dimming  fingers 

Have  shadowed  o'er  each  youthful  brow, 
So  much  of  light  around  them  lingers 

I  can  not  trace  those  shadows  now. 
Ye  both  have  those  who  love  ye  only, 

Whose  dearest  hopes  are  round  you  thrown, 
While,  like  a  stream  that  wanders  wildly, 

Am  I,  the  youngest,  wildest  one. 

My  heart  is  like  the  wind,  that  beareth 

Sweet  scents  upon  its  unseen  wing — 
The  wind  !   that  for  no  creature  careth, 

Yet  stealeth  sweets  from  everything; 
It  hath  rich  thoughts  for  ever  leaping 

Up,  like  the  waves  of  flashing  seas, 
That  with  their  music  still  are  keeping 

Soft  time  with  every  fitful  breeze ; 
Each  leaf  that  in  the  bright  air  quivers, 

The  sounds  from  hidden  solitudes, 
And  the  deep  flow  of  far-off  rivers, 

And  the  loud  rush  of  many  floods : 

All  these,  and  more,  stir  in  my  bosom 

Feelings  that  make  my  spirit  glad, 
Like  dewdrops  shaken  in  a  blossom  ; 

And  yet  there  is  a  something  sad 
Mixed  with  those  thought^,  like  clouds,  that  hover 

Above  us  in  the  quieter, 
Veiling  the  moon's  pale  beauty  over, 

Like  a  dark  spirit  brooding  there. 


AMELIA    B.   WELBY. 


sai 


But,  sisters  !  those  wild  thoughts  were  never 

Yours :  ye  would  not  love,  like  me, 
To  gaze  upon  the  stars  for  ever, 

To  hear  the  wind's  wild  melody. 
Ye'd  rather  look  on  smiling  faces, 

And  linger  round  a  cheerful  hearth, 
Than  mark  the  stars'  bright  hiding-places 

As  they  peep  out  upon  the  earth. 
But,  sisters !   as  the  stars  of  even 

Shrink  from  Day's  go'den-flashing  eye, 
And,  melting  in  the  depths  of  heaven, 

Veil  their  soft  beams  within  the  sky  ; 
So  shall  we  pass,  the  joyous-hearted, 

The  fond,  the  young,  like  stars  that  wane, 
Till  every  link  of  earth  he  parted, 

To  form  in  heaven  one  mystic  chain. 


MUSINGS. 

I  WANDERED  out  one  summer  night, 

'T  was  when  my  years  were  few, 
The  wind  was  singing  in  the  light, 

And  I  was  singing  too; 
The  sunshine  lay  upon  the  hill, 

The  shadow  in  the  vale, 
And  here  and  there  a  leaping  rill 

Was  laughing  on  the  gale. 
One  fleecy  cloud  upon  the  air 

Was  all  that  met  my  eyes ; 
It  floated  like  an  angel  there 

Between  me  and  the  skies; 
I  clapped  my  hands  and  warbled  wild. 

As  here  and  there  I  flew, 
For  I  was  but  a  careless  child, 

And  did  as  children  do. 
The  waves  came  dancing  o'er  the  sea 

In  bright  and  glittering  bands  ; 
Like  little  children,  wild  with  glee, 

They  linked  their  dimpled  hands — 
They  linked  their  hands,  but,  ere  I  caught 

Their  sprinkled  drops  of  dew, 
They  kissed  my  feet,  and,  quick  as  thought, 

Away  the  ripples  flew. 
The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea ; 
For  every  wave  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace, 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 
The  young  moon,  too,  with  upturned  sides 

Her  mirrored  beauty  gave, 
And,  as  a  bark  at  anchor  rides, 

She  rode  upon  the  wave ; 
The  sea  was  like  the  heaven  above, 

As  perfect  and  as  whole, 
Save  that  it  seemed  to  thrill  with  love 

As  thrills  the  immortal  soul. 

The  leaves,  by  spirit-voices  stirred, 

Made  murmurs  on  the  air, 
Low  murmurs,  that  my  spirit  heard 

And  answered  with  a  prayer ; 


For  'twas  upon  that  dewy  sod, 

Beside  the  moaning  seas. 
I  learned  at  first  to  worship  God 

And  sing  such  strains  as  these. 
The  flowers,  all  folded  to  their  dreams, 

Were  bowed  in  slumber  free 
By  breezy  hills  and  murmuring  streams, 

Where'er  they  chanced  to  be ; 
No  guilty  tears  had  they  to  weep, 

No  sins  to  be  forgiven ; 
They  closed  their  leaves  and  went  to  sleep 

'Neath  the  blue  eye  of  heaven !" 
No  costly  robes  upon  them  shone, 

No  jewels  from  the  seas, 
Yet  Solomon  upon  his  throne 

Was  ne'er  arrayed  like  these  ; 
And  just  as  free  from  guilt  and  art 

Were  lovely  human  flowers, 
Ere  Sorrow  set  her  bleeding  heart 

On  this  fair  world  of  ours. 

I  heard  the  laughing  wind  behind 

A-playing  with  my  hair ; 
The  breezy  fingers  of  the  wind — 

How  cool  and  moist  they  were ! 
I  heard  the  night-bird  warbling  o'er 

Its  soft,  enchanting  strain : 
I  never  heard  such  sounds  before, 

And  never  shall  again. 

Then  wherefore  weave  such  strains  as  these, 

And  sing  them  day  by  day, 
When  every  bird  upon  the  breeze 

Can  sing  a  sweeter  lay  1 
I'd  give  the  world  for  their  sweet  art, 

The  simple,  the  divine — 
I'd  give  the  world  to  melt  one  heart 

As  they  have  melted  mine ! 

THE  LITTLE  STEP-SOX. 

I  HAVE  a  little  step-son, 

The  loveliest  thing  alive: 
A  noble,  sturdy  bov  is  he, 

And  yet  he's  only  five; 
His  smooth  cheek  hath  a  blooming  glow, 

His  eyes  are  black  as  jet, 
And  his  lips  are  like  two  rosebuds, 

All  tremulous  and  wet : 
His  days  pass  off  in  sunshine, 

In  laughter,  and  in  song, 
As  care'ess  as  a  summer  rill, 

That  sings  itself  along  ; 
For  like  a  pretty  fairy  tale., 

That's  all  too  quickly  told, 
Is  the  young  life  of  a  little  one 

That's  only  five  years  old. 

He 's  dreaming  on  his  happy  couch 

Before  the  day  grows  dark, 
He's  up  with  morning's  rosy  ray 

A-singing.  with  the  lark; 
Where'er  the  flowers  are  freshest, 

Where'er  the  grass  is  green, 
With  light  locks  waving  on  the  wind 

His  fairy  form  is  seen, 


332 


AMELIA   B.   WE  LEY. 


Amid  the  whistling  March  winds, 

Amid  the  April  showers; 
He  warbles  with  the  singing  birds 

And  blossoms  with  the  flowers ; 
He  cares  not  for  the  summer  heat, 

He  cares  not  for  the  cold — 
My  sturdy  litt'e  step-son, 

That's  only  five  years  old. 

How  touching  'tis  to  see  him  clasp 

His  dimpled  hands  in  prayer, 
4  nd  raise  his  little  rosy  face 

With  reverential  air  ! 
How  simple  is  his  eloquence, 

How  soft  his  accents  fall, 
When  pleading  with  the  King  of  kings 

To  love  and  bless  us  all  ! 
And  when  from  prayer  he  bounds  away 

In  innocence  and  jov, 
The  blessing  of  a  smiling  God 

Goes  with  the  sinless  boy  ; 
A  little  lambkin  of  the  flock, 

Within  the  Savior's  fold, 
Is  he  my  lovely  step-son, 

That's  only  five  years  old. 

I  have  not  told  you  of  our  home, 

That  in  the  summer  hours 
Stands  in  its  simple  modesty 

Half  hid  among  the  flowers ; 
I  have  not  said  a  single  word 

About  our  mines  of  wealth — 
Our  treasures  are  this  little  boy, 

Contentment,  peace,  and  health  ; 
For  even  a  lordly  hall  to  us 

Would  be  a  voiceless  place 
Without  the  gush  of  his  glad  voice, 

The  gleams  of  his  bright  face : 
And  many  a  court'y  pair,  I  ween. 

Would  give  their  gems  and  gold 
For  a  noble,  happv  boy,  like  ours, 

Some  four  or  five  years  old. 

THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 

0  THOIT,  who  flingst  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe, 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  0  God 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  trembling  folds  are  lightly  furled, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world  ; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  spot  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  thou,  the  God  of  love,  art  there. 

The  summer  flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Upspringing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet 

At  every  step  thy  smiles,  O  God  ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares. 

They  bloom  in  palace-hall,  or  cot ; 
Give  me,  O  Lord  !   a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot! 
Within  their  pure,  ambrosial  bells, 


In  odors  sweet,  thy  Spirit  dwells ; 

Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air — 

'T  is  thine,  O  God !  for  thou  art  there. 

List !  from  yon  casement  low  and  dim 

What  sounds  are  these  that  fili  the  L»reeze  1 
It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 

Arrests  the  fisher  on  the  seas  : 
The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 

Upon  his  light-suspended  oar, 
Until  those  soft,  delicious  airs 

Have  died  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 
Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  ? 
What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul  ? 
His  heart  is  filled  with  peace  and  prayer, 
For  thou,  O  God  !  art  with  him  there. 
The  birds  among  the  summer  blooms 

Pour  forth  to  thee  their  strains  of  love, 
When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 

They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above ; 
WTe  hear  their  sweet,  familiar  airs 

W'here'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found ; 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  around ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll, 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
Thy  still,  small  voice  seems  whispering  there. 
The  stars,  those  floating  isles  of  liffht, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails. 
Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  veils, 
They  touch  the  heart  as  with  a  spell, 

Yet,  set  Ihe  soaring  fancy  free, 
And  oh  how  sweet  the  tales  they  tell ! 

They  tell  of  peace,  of  love,  and  thee ! 
Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  gale  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair, 
They  speak  of  thee,  for  thou  art  there, 

The  spirit  oft  oppressed  with  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  thee  from  its  thought, 
But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out, 

Thou  mighty  Guest  that  com'st  unsought ! 
In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Whate'er  our  thoughts,  where'er  we  be, 
Still  magnet-like  the  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  trembling,  up  to  thee; 
We  can  not  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blest, 
Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  thou  the  living  God  art  there. 

Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread, 

Where  soaring  Fancy  oft  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  thou  hast  said 

The  pure  of  heart  shall  enter  in  ; 
In  those  far  realms  so  calmly  bright 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathes  its  soft  plumes  in  living  light 

That  sparkles  from  thy  radiant  throne ! 
There  souls,  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours, 
Look  up  and  sing  mid  fadeless  flowers ; 
They  dream  nc  more  of  grief  and  care, 
For  thou,  the  God  of  peace,  art  there. 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND    ELEANOR    LEE. 


CATHERINE  ANN  WARE  and  ELEANOR  PER 
CY  WARE,  daughters  of  the  Hon.  Nathaniel 
Ware,  of  Mississippi,  were  born  near  the  ci 
ty  of  Natchez.  After  studying  several  years 
in  the  best  seminaVies  of  their  native  state, 
they  completed  their  education  in  one  of  the 
most  fashionable  schools  of  Philadelphia,  af 
ter  leaving  which  they  passed  some  time  in 
travel,  and  became  known  in  many  brilliant 
circles  for  the  vivacious  grace  of  their  man 
ners  and  their  fine  intelligence.  Their  home 
beside  the  "  Father  of  Waters"  was  exchang 
ed  for  one  in  Cincinnati,  and  during  the  resi 
dence  of  Judge  Ware  in  that  city  they  were 
married  :  the  eldest  to  Mr.  Warfield,  of  Lex 
ington,  Kentucky,  and  the  other  to  Mr.  Lee, 
then  of  Vicksburg,  and  now  of  a  place  called 
Bachelor's  Bend,  about  twelve  miles  from 
the  Mississippi  river. 

Their  first  appearance  in  the  literary  world 
was  in  a  volume  entitled  The  Wife  of  Leon, 
and  other  Poems,  by  Two  Sisters  of  the  West, 
printed  in  New  York  in  1843.  It  consisted 
principally  of  fruits  of  desultory  repose  from 
the  excitements  of  society  —  short  pieces, 
written  to  wile  away  time,  and  gratify  a  taste 
for  composition — without  a  thought  that  they 
would  ever  meet  the  eyes  of  strangers;  and 
it  was  riot  until  urged  to  do  so  by  several 
friends  distinguished  for  their  abilities  in  lit 
erature,  that  they  consented  to  the  wishes  of 
their  father  in  giving  them  to  the  press. 

The  reception  of  these  poems  vindicated 
their  publication.  They  were  reviewed  with 
many  expressions  of  approval  in  the  most 
critical  journals,  and  with  especial  praise  in 
The  New  York  Evening  Post  and  The  New 
Mirror,  conducted  by  two  poets,  of  very  dif 
ferent  characters,  but  both  destined  to  places 
among  the  standard  authors  of  the  age  and 
country.  A  second  edition  of  this  volume 
appeared,  under  the  names  of  the  authors,  in 
Cincinnati,  in  the  autumn  of  1848. 

In  1846  Mrs.  Warfield  and  Mrs.  lee  pub 
lished  a  new  collection  of  their  writings,  un 
der  the  title  of  The  Indian  Chamber  and  other 
Poems,  in  which  there  is  evinced  a  very  de 
cided  advancement  in  reflection,  feeling  and 


art.  They  exhibit  more  readiness  of  epithet 
and  imagery,  from  the  observation  of  nature 
and  the  experience  of  life,  and  have  more 
meaning  and  earnestness. 

We  have  in  neither  volume  any  intima 
tion  of  the  respective  shares  of  the  authors 
in  its  production,  but  it  would  not  have  es 
caped  the  detection  of  the  most  careless  read 
ers  that  the  poems  are  by  different  hands,  of 
very  different  though  perhaps  not  very  une 
qual  powers.  Among  them  are  many  speci 
mens  of  ingenious  and  happy  fancy,  of  bold 
and  distinct  painting,  and  of  tasteful,  harmo 
nious,  and  sometimes  sparkling  versification  ; 
but  not  a  few  of  them  would  have  been  much 
better  if  the  authors  had  recollected  that  the 
word  "  thing"  can  never  be  properly  applied 
to  a  human  intelligence  except  in  expression 
of  contempt,  and  that  "  redolent,"  "  fraught," 
"glee, "and  some  half  dozen  other  pet  phrases 
of  poetasters,  convenient  enough  for  rhyming 
and  filling  out  lines,  have,  from  the  manner 
in  which  they  are  commonly  applied,  become 
offensive,  unless  used  sparingly  and  with  the 
most  exact  propriety.  Illustrations  of  the 
fault  to  which  we  refer  —  a  fault  by  no  means 
peculiar  to  the  "Two  Sisters  of  the  West," 
—  may  be  found  in  that  line  of  The  Bird  of 
Washington,  in  which  the  soul  is  styled 

A  proud,  triumphant  thing: 

and  in  Remorse,  where  the  word  "adored," 
which  is  as  sacred  to  one  purpose  as  the  He 
brew  characters  that  syllabled  the  highest 
name  of  the  Creator,  and  which  expresses  no 
possible  extravagance  of  feeling  toward  a  hu 
man  being,  is  used  for  loved,  or  —  though 
this  would  be  in  very  bad  taste  —  for  to?r- 
s  hipped. 

The  two  volumes  that  have  been  referred 
to  do  not  comprise  all  nor  perhaps  the  best 
of  the  compositions  of  their  authors.  They 
are  both  experienced  and  successful  writers 
of  prose,  and  Mrs.  Warfield  has  written  a 
novel,  that,  if  published  under  her  real  name, 
would  surprise  those  who  have  formed  th« 
most  favorable  estimates  of  her  powers,  by 
its  fine  description,  genial  wit,  and  criticism 
of  society  and  manners. 

333 


334 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND    ELEANOR    LEE. 


REMORSE. 

THE  clay  had  died  in  splendor  royally, 
Mid  draperies  of  purple  and  of  gold, 
And  crimson  banners  waving  o'er  its  bier; 
And  the  last  yellow  tints  were  fading  fast 
From  earth  and  sea,  and  paling  in  the  west 
Into  that  vague,  gray  shadow  which  comes  down 
Over  the  breast  of  Nature,  as  deep  thought 
Upon  the  human  spirit.     Strangely  linked 
With  all  the  deeper  yearnings  of  the  soul — 
The  secrets  of  the  inner  fane — art  thou, 
Mysterious  Twilight !   thou,  who  didst  prevail 
O'er  Chaos  with  a  drear  and  brooding  weight, 
And  hadst  a  name  ere  night  and  day  began. 
Still,  in  thine  ancient  guise,  thou  walkst  the  earth, 
Thou  shadow  of  the  Almighty  !   and  ca  1st  up 
Conscience,  and  Thought,  and  Memory,  that  sleep 
Through  the  glad,  busy  day  and  dreaming  night, 
In  long  and  sad  array.     There  lives  not  one 
O'er  whom  thine  influence  falls  not  mournfully ; 
Thou  art  prophetic  to  the  few  who  boast 
A  happy  past,  and  with  thy  shadowy  hand 
Seemest  to  lift  a  corner  of  the  veil 
That  shuts  their  present  from  futurity. 
And  to  the  mourning  spirit  thou  revealest 
Pale,  haunting  faces — lost,  yet  loved  not  less 
Than  when  they  knew  no  better  home  than  earth, 
And  wore  a  human  guise.     But  in  the  soul 
Where  lies  a  hidden  sting  of  pain  and  wrong, 
Of  vain  regret,  or,  darker  still,  remorse — 
Thou  bringst,  O  shadowy  Twilight,  brooding  gloom, 
And  dearth,  and  restlessness,  and  agony  ! 

Within  a  southern  garden,  where  the  breath 
Of  flowers  went  up  like  incense,  and  the  plash 
Of  falling  fountains  made  a  murmuring  voice 
Of  music  sweet,  yet  same,  there  paced  a  man 
Restlessly  to  and  fro :  the  lingering  light 
Fell  on  his  features,  pale  and  beautiful 
As  those  of  the  old  statues,  and  with  much 
Of  the  ideal  tenderness  that  breathed 
Around  the  marble,  till  it  rivalled  life — 
Yet  with  a  latent  sternness,  lurking  still 
About  the  august,  high  forehead,  and  the  lip, 
And  the  fine,  sweeping  profile,  that  recalled 
Yet  more  a  statue's  strong  similitude. 
But  wild  and  stormy  changes  now  o'ercast 
Those  noble  features-— sick  and  wringing  pain, 
Then  shuddering  shame,  anxiety,  despair  : 
These,  plainly  as  my  hand  hath  traced  the  words, 
Were  written  on  his  aspect ;  and  a  prayer — 
Which,  in  its  brief  and  utter  desolateness, 
Bears  more  of  misery  than  any  boon 
A  human  heart  may  crave — oft  left  his  lip, 
Unconscious  of  its  utterance:  "  Oh,  my  God, 
Let  me  forget — or  suffer  me  to  die  !" 

A  step  was  near  him.     Suddenly  he  turned, 
And  bent  a  long,  sad  gaze  on  one  whose  touch 
Jfad  broken  the  dark  spell ;  whose  white  hand  lay 
Yet  on  his  arm  in  tenderness;  whose  eyes 
Were  raised  with  such  intensity  of  love,      [down, 
They  touched  the  springs  of  tears.     Then  he  bowed 
And  veiling  in  his  hand  his  quivering  face, 
Wept  silently  and  long ;  while  mournfully 
over  him  that  ange»  minister, 


Whose  love  alone  poured  balm  into  his  wound, 
And  shone  a  star  o'er  the  dark  waste  of  life. 

Still  in  that  southern  garden  lingered  they, 
The  pa'e  and  suffering  man,  and  she  who  seemed 
The  genius  of  his  fate.     The  stars  were  met 
In  starry  conclave  in  their  halls  above, 
And  the  moon,  in  the  deep  and  quiet  heaven, 
Rose  high  amid  a  maze  of  fleecy  clouds, 
Toward  the  noon  of  night.     Beneath  a  bower 
Where  breathed  the  odorous  jessamine,  they  sat 
Communing  of  the  irrevocable  past. 
His  voice  was  lifted  in  the  solemn  night 
In  passionate  remorse  :  he,  who  had  stood 
At  morn  within  the  crowded  council-hall, 
Pouring  abroad  a  gush  of  eloquence 
That  stirred  the  heart  as  with  a  trumpet-note, 
That  called  up  Feeling  from  its  inmost  cell, 
And  followed  Motive  to  its  hidden  source, 
And  touched  the  electric  chain  of  Memory, 
Until  the  mighty  mass  became  as  one 
Sentient  and  breathing  soul  beneath  his  spell , 
He,  the  adored,  the  proud,  the  eloquent, 
The  stateliest  amid  men,  now  filled  the  hush 
Of  night  with  dark  bewai lings,  while  each  pause 
Of  that  sad,  thrilling  voice,  was  filled  by  tones 
Unutterably  musical  and  soft, 
Urging  Love's  fondest  prayer  : 

"  Be  calm,  mine  own  ! 

The  strife  was  not  thy  seeking :  thou  didst  bear, 
(Thou,  who  art  fearless  as  an  eagle  plumed,) 
With  saintlike  meekness,  much  of  taunt  and  wrong, 
Much  scorn  and  injury,  ere  they  could  urge 
Thy  hand  against  the  man  thou  lovest  so  well — 
Ay,  with  a  brother's  tenderness.     Be  firm  ; 
Turn  from  such  memories."     He  arose,  and  paced 
The  moonlight  bower  with  folded  arms,  and  head 
Bowed  to  his  breast.  "  They  haunt  me  yet,"  he  said, 
"  That  manly  form,  those  large,  dark,  joyous  eyes, 
The  stately  step,  the  sweet,  fresh,  ringing  laugh, 
(Marion  !  it  was  a  sound  that  had  no  peer, 
Save  at  a  fountain,  at  its  freshest  source, 
Gushing  through  mountain  clefts,)  these,  these  arise, 
Darkly  and  terribly.     These  haunt  me  still. 

"I  would  forgetfulness  were  mine!  full  oft 
That  old  wild  tale  of  oriental  lands 
Comes  back  with  all  its  witchery  to  my  brain, 
Fresh  as  when  o'er  its  page  I  hung  entranced 
In  my  glad  boyhood,  'neath  the  summer  boughs. 
The  waters  of  oblivion  !  where  are  they. 
Those  crystal  waters  in  their  marble  font  1 
For  one  deep  draught  I  would  surrender  all 
The  eloquence,  the  power,  the  wealth,  the  fame, 
That  I  have  made  mine  own — all,  all,  save  thee, 
And  go  with  toiling  hands  and  hopeful  heart 
Forth  on  the  waste  of  life !     Forgetfulness — 
I  ask  but  this !"     He  paused,  and  choking  back 
A  tide  of  agony,  went  on  once  more 
In  calmer  tones :  "  It  is  not  oft,  mine  own — 
Believe  me — oh  !  not  often  that  my  soul 
Opens  her  prison  chambers,  and  gives  forth 
Her  captive  anguish.     Even  in  solitude 
My  habit  is  not  this ;  and  thou  hast  known, 
Hitherto,  from  some  gloomy  mood  alone, 
Some  sad,  fantastic  humor,  some  wild  dream, 
Whose  mutterings  startled  thee  from  midnight  sleep 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    .\ND    ELEANOR   LEE. 


»3fi 


To.  fearfu'  watches — something  of  the  spell 
That  binds  me,  as  the  serpent  binds  the  bird 
Help  essly  in  its  strong  and  poisonous  coils. 
But  there  are  times  when,   armed   with   fearful 

strength, 

Burst  from  their  stony  cells  those  prisoners  pale, 
Those  memories  that  may  not,  will  not  die, 
Those  agonies  that  keep  a  quenchless  flame 
Burning  within  their  dungeons,  as  of  old 
'J  he  virgins  of  the  Sun  fed,  day  and  night, 
T.  cir  fire  for  ages.     These  arise  to  daunt, 
To  taunt  me  wildly,  and  I  leave  the  halls, 
The  haunts  of  men — even  from  thy  presence  flee, 
Often  to  the  dark  forest,  or  the  brink 
Of  the  deep-moaning  and  unresting  sea, 
To  battle  with  the  fiend  !" 

Again  that  voice, 

Clear  as  a  silver  lute,  and  redolent 
With  love  and  hope,  fi'Ied  the  deep  hush  of  pain  : 
"Thy  virtues,  thy  profound  humility, 
Thy  chanty  for  all,  thy  tenderness, 
Thy  genius,  which  on  eagles'  wings  ascends 
Above  the  arrows  of  thine  enemies, 
A  star  for  men,  a  light  for  after-times — 
Ay,  more  than  these,  thy  deep  and  stern  remorse  : 
Shall  not  these  prove  atonement  at  the  shrine 
Of  God,  for  that  one  deed — not  all  thine  own, 
But  forced  upon  thee  by  fatality; 
A  sorrow,  riot  a  crime !" 

"  It  is  in  vain" — 

He  spoke  as  one  in  utter  hopelessness — • 
'•  Marion  !  thy  gentle  sophistry  is  vain ; 
I  have  essayed  that  specious  reasoning 
That  would  wipe  out,  from  hands  imbrued  in  blood, 
The  dark,  the  gory  stain.     Much  have  I  striven 
To  call  up  all  my  wrongs,  and  these  array 
Against  the  moment  when  my  hand  unloosed 
A  spirit  from  its  tenement  of  clay. 
I  have  remembered  all  my  injuries, 
Lived  o'er  again  our  feuds ;  recalled  his  wild 
And  insolent  insults — nay,  the  very  blow 
That  maddened  me. 

Yet  have  all  these  failed, 
As  mists  before  the  red,  uprising  sun. 
Compared  to  that  brief  instant.     I  wou'd  give 
Life,  that  once  more  those  lips  were  here  to  heap 
Their  bitterest  imprecations  on  my  head  ; 
'J  hat  hand  again,  a  portion  of  our  mould, 
That  smote  me,  harshly,  undeservedly  ; 
That  haughty  heart  still  beating  high  with  wrath, 
O'er  which  the  sod  now  presses  heavily — 
Or  that  I  lay  beside  him  in  the  grave  ! 
I  am  not  self-deluded.     I  am  borne 
By  some  invisible  agency  along 
To  power,  to  fame ;  and  inspiration  hangs 
About  my  lips  that  startles  me  at  times, 
Even  as  the  crowd  is  startled;  and  I  feel 
That  1  am  changed— that  with  intensity 
Of  thought  and  passion,  genius  was  aroused, 
Born,  like  the  wondrous  bird  of  Araby, 
From  ashes,  desolation,  and  from  death. 
A  giant  earthquake  hath  thrown  up  to  light 
The  gems  that  sparkled  in  the  secret  mine, 
But  overwhelmed  the  blossoms  that  made  fair 
Earth's  bosom.     Never,  never  more 


The  earnestness,  the  loveliness  of  life, 
Shall  shine  on  me !     Its  fitful  glare  alone 
Illumines  my  ill-ordered  destiny  ; 
And  in  the  wild  excitement  of  the  crowd, 
The  clamor  of  the  multitude,  the  voice 
Of  adulation,  and  the  strife  for  fame, 
I  lose  alone  the  memory  of  my  doom. 
The  torchlight  of  existence  still  remains : 
Its  sunlight  hath  departed,  and  as  flame 
Consumes  the  a'iment  that  feeds  its  life, 
And  self-destroyed  expires — so  must  my  soul 
Perish  amid  its  ashes. 

,  Nay  !  the  time 

Is  near,  my  Marion,  when  this  voice  shall  cease 
To  pour  its  bitter  plainings  on  thine  ear ; 
A  sickness  and  a  weariness  have  crept 
Of  late  across  my  spirit,  and  a  vague 
And  dreamy  craving  for  reality — 
For  all  things  seem  like  shadows.     Men  move  by 
As  forms  we  dimly  see  in  midnight  dreams; 
And  the  vast  crowd,  with  all  its  upcast  heads, 
Seems  often  a  phantasma  to  mine  eyes. 
All  but  the  sense  of  one  great  agony, 
And  that  is  like  the  sea,  unslumbering — 
And  that  is  like  the  stars,  unchangeable — '• 
Ay,  deep  and  constant  as  my  love  for  thee, 
Is  that  remorse  !" 

She  clung  to  him,  she  bathed 
His  brow  with  tears.    She  did  not  speak,  she  knew 
How  vain  the  task  to  soothe  such  agony. 
But  mutely  in  her  bleeding  heart  she  prayed 
The  mood  might  pass,  or  that  the  oblivious  grave 
Might  close  o'er  both. 

They  rose  at  last,  and  traced 
Through  a  dim,  intricate  path,  where  orange-boughs 
Made  sweet  the  earth  beneath  their  feet,  the  way 
To  their  majestic  home ;  and  through  its  halls 
Arid  colonnades  of  marble,  where  up  sprang 
Many  a  low-voiced  fountain,  many  a  shaft 
Of  porphyry,  and  marble  bearing  up 
Vases  of  antique  splendor,  filled  with  flowers, 
They  passed  in  silence  and  in  gloom  of  soul, 
Even  as  those  shapes  that  move,  a  restless  throng, 
Within  the  halls  of  Eblis. — Peace  be  theirs ! 


DEATH  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

IT  was  a  morn  of  autumn  :  wide,  and  vast, 
And  boundless,  to  the  eyes  of  those  who  gazed 
Upon  its  waste  of  verdure,  as  the  sea, 
The  prairie  stretched  away ;  and  through  its  Ion,; 
Luxuriant  grass  the  breath  of  morning  crept, 
Swaying  its  flexile  blades,  until  they  rose 
And  fell  in  masses  like  the  ocean-waves, 
And  rendered,  like  those  billows  of  the  deep, 
The  sunbeam's  splendor  back,  for  yet  the  dews 
WTere  on  their  mobile  surface. 

In  this  wide 

Monotony  of  beauty  there  appeared 
One  landmark  only  for  the  weary  eye, 
And  that  was  but  a  wreathing  cloud  of  smoke. 
Uprising  from  the  fires  of  those  who  made 
A  temporary  sojourn  on  that  waste 
Of  verdure.    They  had  paused  where  burst  a  sprirg 


336 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND   ELEANOR   LEE. 


Up  from  the  very  sod,  and  made  its  way 
Quietly  through  the  grass;  a  silver  stream, 
Narrow  and  winding,  and  almost  unseen 
At  a  few  paces  from  its  humble  source. 
Here  had  they  sadly  rested,  for  the  sake 
Of  one  whose  weariness  of  heart  and  limb 
Demanded  such  repose,  and  whose  parched  lips 
Drank  eagerly  and  gratefully  their  last 
Refreshment  from  the  waters  of  the  wild. 
She  lay  upon  the  rude  and  hasty  couch 
Which  kindly  hands  had  framed,  that  dying  girl, 
And  gazed  upon  the  blue,  autumnal  sky, 
With  something  half  ecstatic  in  her  pale 
And  parted  lips,  and  in  her  large  blue  eyes, 
And  in  the  folding  of  her  wan,  slight  hands, 
Clasped  as  in  prayer. 

She  had  besought  them  not 
To  raise  between  her  and  the  firmament 
Shelter  or  shade.     It  was  her  dying  wish 
To  feel  the  breeze,  the  sunlight,  on  her  brow ; 
For  she  was  one,  though  lowly  of  descent, 
Imbued  with  fine  perceptions,  and  the  high 
And  spiritual  love  of  Nature  long 
Had  made  its  home  and  altar  in  her  heart  : 
She  seemed  not  of  the  mould  of  those  who  hung 
In  watchful  love  around  her. 

It  may  be 

That  Death,  the.chastener,  from  her  lineaments 
Had  banished  all  the  dross  of  earthly  thought, 
And  stamped  the  impress  of  the  angel  there. 
The  loveliness  of  that  seraphic  face 
No  marble  might  surpass — nor  in  the  halls 
Of  princely  dwellings,  where  the  beautiful 
Wear  the  fine  delicacy  of  the  flower, 
Hath  eye  beheld  a  brow  more  beautiful 
Than  hers,  the  daughter  of  the  emigrant. 
The  deep  solemnity  of  hopeless  grief 
Reigned  o'er  the  band  of  kindred  wayfarers — 
A  silence  only  broken  by  the  low 
And  pleading  voice  of  one  who  knelt  beside 
The  perishing  girl,  and  clasped  her  chilling  hands, 
And  wiped  the  dews  from  her  transparent  brow 
With  the  devoted  tenderness  of  despair. 
Silent  and  stern,  with  folded  arms,  and  lips 
Compressed  in  agony,  the  father  stood, 
And  gazed  upon  the  li!y  of  his  race 
Broken  and  crushed  ;  and  the  strong,  swarthy  lines 
Of  his  embrowned  and  manly  countenance 
Seemed  deeper  ploughed  by  that  short  space  of  grief 
Than  all  its  years  of  toil,  of  change,  of  pain. 
And  silent,  too,  the  brothers  grouped  around, 
Yet  shaken  in  their  stillness,  as  the  pines 
That  bow  their  stately  crests  before  the  winds; 
Arid  prone  on  earth  her  youthful  sister  lay, 
With  hidden  face,  and  low,  convulsive  sobs. 
But,  to  the  last,  the  mother  faltered  not: 
She  who  had  cherished  to  idolatry 
That  young,  frail  creature,  and  divided  her 
With  an  impassible  devotedness 
From  all  things  else  on  earth.     She  who  had  erred 
In  the  injustice  of  her  tenderness, 
And  poured  the  vials  of  maternal  love 
A  thousand-fold  on  one — she  faltered  not, 
But  with  a  bursting  heart  put  back  the  tide 
Of  anguish  and  despair,  and  lifted  up 


Her  soul  with  that  already  plumed  for  heaven, 
And  strove  to  smoothe  the  bitterness  of  death 
With  words  of  consolation,  peace,  and  prayer, 
And' holy  inspiration. 

"  Sing  to  me, 

Kind  mother;  sing  to  me  that  old  sweet  hymn, 
Which  in  our  village  church  so  solemnly 
Welcomed  each  sabbath  day  :  I  well  believe 
That,  even  mid  the  harmonies  of  saints, 
It  will  return  to  me/' 

'T  was  difficult 

To  take  from  agony  a  voice  for  song ; 
Yet  the  devoted  mother  poured  the  strain 
Of  holy  beauty  on  the  dying  ear, 
That  seemed  to  drink  its  melody  with  joy, 
And  stifled  the  deep  groans  that  often  strove 
To  pass  her  lips.     Hers  was  heroic  love. 
Unheeded  by  the  mourning  band,  a  child — 
A  bright-haired  boy — had  wandered  from  their  fires 
To  gather  prairie-flowers,  and  now  returned 
With  a  rich  store  of  fragrance  and  of  bloom, 
And  with  the  impulse  of  a  loving  heart 
Showered  the  rich  blossoms  on  his  sister's  breast. 
She  turned  her  face  to  his,  illumined  with 
A  smile  of  most  benignant  tenderness, 
And  claspii%  in  her  own  his  rosy  hands, 
She  gave  into  his  trust  a  solemn  charge  : 
"  Be  true  to  man,  to  God  :  be  staff  and  stay 
To  our  beloved  parents ;  falter  not 
In  the  good  path — and  we  shall  meet  again !" 
Simple  those  words,  and  few :  yet  shall  they  cling 
Upon  his  brain  while  Memory  holds  her  seat, 
And  with  their  serious  tenderness  and  truth 
Charm,  like  a  talisman,  his  soul  from  wrong. 
The  hours  wore  on,  and  gradually  the  face 
Of  the  departing  maiden  more  and  more 
Revealed  the  hand  of  the  victorious  king. 
The  strife  was  almost  over — if,  indeed, 
Strife  might  be  called  that  ebbing  of  the  tide 
Of  pain,  of  consciousness,  of  life  away. 
Yet  still  there  was  a  duty  unfulfilled — • 
A  prayer  unuttered — and  it  was  the  last 
That  left  the  wan  lips  of  the  fainting  girl, 
Breathed  on  a  mother's  ear  : 

"  Wfhen  I  a  in  gone, 

Take  from  my  breast  a  curl  of  raven  hair, 
And  mingle  with  it  one  long  braid  of  mine — 
Then  send  them  home  to  him  ;  and  say  I  died 
Peacefully — trusting  he  would  turn  away 
From  his  dark  course  of  passion  and  of  sin, 
And  meet  me  there  !" 

She  raised  her  hand  on  high : 
It  fell  a  lifeless  thing — a  tremor  shook 
Her  delicate  frame,  as  the  breeze  shakes  the  flower, 
And  life  was  gone  ! 

They  broke  the  sod  of  flowers, 
And  made  her  virgin  grave  beside  the  spring 
Which  laved  her  dying  brow,  and  went  their  way 
Across  the  wilderness. 

Nor  is  there  aught 

To  mark  her  lone  and  distant  resting-place; 
The  human  eye  might  seek  in  vain  to  trace 
The  vestige  of  her  last  repose,  amid 
The  long,  rank  grass  that  shadows  all  the  eartl 
But  angels  know  the  spot,  and  guard  it  well. 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND    ELEANOR   LEE. 


LEGEND  OF  THE   INDIAN  CHAMBER. 


"  BASIL  !  set  my  house  in  order. 

For,  when  I  return  to-day, 
I  shall  bring  with  me  a  stranger, 

Tarrying  on  his  homeward  way. 
Open  fling  the  Indian  Chamber, 

And  the  arras  free  from  mould; 
There  array  a  goodly  banquet, 

Such  as  cheered  my  sires  of  old — 
When,  from  chase  or  war  returning, 

Dukes  and  princes  of  my  line, 
From  the  evening  till  the  morning, 

Filled  the  cup  and  drained  the  wine." 

"  Master,  in  thy  lordly  castle 

There  are  many  halls  of  pride, 
Where  no  damps  the  walls  encumber — 

Where  no  spells  of  gloom  abide. 
In  the  gallery  of  the  Titans, 

In  the  hall  of  Count  Lothaire, 
In  the  grand  saloon  of  columns, 

Better  had  ye  banquet  there. 
But  the  dreary  Indian  Chamber, 

Oh  !  bethink  you,  master  mine — 
There  have  slept,  in  mortal  slumber, 

All  the  princes  of  your  line. 

"  There  the  mourners  ever  gather, 

Forth  to  bear  the  noble  dead — 
There  you  saw  your  stately  father, 

And  your  noble  brother  laid  ; 
There,  save  in  these  times  of  anguish, 

Never,  since  my  life  began, 
Entered  in  a  ray  of  sunlight, 

Or  the  step  of  mortal  man. 
And  the  sounds  of  mystic  meaning — 

Master  !  need  I  speak  of  these  ]  — 
Which  from  that  lone  eastern  chamber 

Meet  the  ear — the  spirit  freeze  !" 

With  a  brow  of  haughty  pallor, 

Straight  the  baron  turned  away, 
In  a  scornful  accent  saying, 

"'Tis  my  mandate,  slave! — obey." 
Then  in  haste,  with  gloomy  aspect, 

Forth  he  went  upon  his  steed, 
Rushing  headlong  on  his  pathway, 

Like  an  evil  spirit  freed. 
And  with  sad  and  stricken  spirit, 

Basil  watched  his  lord  depart, 
While  a  dark  and  evil  omen, 

Hearse-like,  pressed  upon  his  heart. 

Long  he  lingered  at  the  portal, 

Bound  as  with  a  gloomy  dream; 
Long  he  looked  upon  the  landscape, 

Which  before  him  ceased  to  seem ; 
Then,  with  low  and  prayerful  mutterings, 

Shaking  oft  his  tresses  gray, 
Clasping  oft  his  withered  fingers, 

Basil  went  upon  his  way. 
Passed  he  up  the  ancient  stairway, 

Groped  he  through  the  echoing  aisle, 
Where,  to  seek  the  olden  chapel, 

Oft  had  passed  a  kingly  file. 
22 


Climbed  he  the  remotest  turret 

Of  that  castle  grand  and  vast, 
And  before  the  Indian  Chamber 

Wearily  he  paused  at  last : 
Yes,  a  moment  there  he  faltered, 

He  who  oft  had  stood  the  shock 
Of  the  hottest,  fiercest  battle, 

Firm  as  a  primeval  rock. 
On  the  bolt  his  fingers  trembled, 

Scarcely  could  their  strength  unclose 
The  immense  and  ponderous  fastening, 

Rusted  by  its  long  repose. 

Yet  a  moment — yet  a  moment, 

Ere  the  door  was  open  flung, 
Paused  the  old  and  awe-struck  Basil, 

Fervent  avcs  on  his  tongue. 
As  if  Heaven  his  prayer  had  answered, 

Peace  and  comfort  round  him  stole, 
And  a  calm  and  lofty  courage 

Nerved  his  hand  and  filled  his  soul. 
With  a  slight,  yet  sudden  effort, 

Back  the  oaken  door  he  threw, 
And  upon  the  darkened  threshold 

Stood  the  fearful  place  to  view. 

Dark  and  dreary  was  that  chamber, 

Which  in  lengthened  gloom  appeared, 
With  its  dark  and  mystic  arras, 

Wrought  in  symbols  wild  and  weird. 
Lifelike  were  the  gorgeous  figures, 

Giantlike  they  seemed  to  loom 
In  the  dim,  imperfect  twilight 

Of  that  long-forsaken  room. 
Warily  the  old  man  entered : 

With  a  solemn  step  he  trod 
Through  the  drear  and  dark  apartment, 

Trusting  to  his  fathers'  God. 
In  the  ample  hearth  he  kindled 

Brands  that,  in  departed  days, 
Quenched  and  blackened,  had  been  left  there- 
Strange  and  ghostly  seemed  their  blaze. 
And  upon  the  marble  table 

Ranged  the  regal  store  of  plate, 
And  arrayed  the  goodly  banquet, 

As  became  his  master's  state : 
Urn,  and  vase,  and  chalice,  brimming 

With  the  floods  of  ruby  wine, 
As  beseemed  the  dukes  and  princes 

Of  that  mighty  Norman  line. 
Then  he  silently  betook  him 

To  his  first-appointed  task — 
Wiping  from  the  ancient  arras 

Many  a  spot  of  mould  and  mask. 
But  the  dark  and  loathing  horror, 

It  befits  me  not  to  speak, 
Which,  while  still  his  task  pursuing, 

Shook  his  hand,  and  blanched  his  cheek 
For  he  could  not  but  remember 

How,  in  long-departed  years, 
Woven  was  that  wondrous  fabric 

By  the  spells  of  Indian  seers. 
Wrought  with  themes  of  Hindoo  storj. 
•   Lifelike,  in  their  coloring  bold, 
Yemen's  fall,  and  Vishnu's  glory. 

Was  that  arras  quaint  and  old 


338 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND   ELEANOR   LEE. 


Juggernaut's  remorseless  chariot, 

Funeral  pyre,  and  temp'e  proud, 
Bungalow,  and  rajah's  palace, 

With  their  strange  and  motley  crowd; 
Jungle  low,  and  flower-crowned  river, 

Dancing-girls,  with  anklets  bright — 
These,  like  gorgeous  dreams  of  fever, 

Crowded  on  the  gazer's  sight. 

And  the  long  and  twisting  serpents, 

And  the  tigers  crouching  grim, 
Seemed  the  dark  and  fearful  guardians 

Of  that  Indian  Chamber  dim. 
To  the  simple,  earnest  spirit 

Of  the  old  and  faithful  man. 
For  a  Christian  hand  to  touch  them, 

Was  to  merit  Christian  ban. 
Saint  and  martyr  inly  calling, 

Still  he  wrought  his  master's  will, 
When  a  terror  more  appalling 

Caused  his  very  veins  to  chill. 

In  that  dreary  Indian  Chamber, 

Strangely  grand  and  desolate, 
With  its  long  and  hearse-!ike  hangings, 

Stood  a  plumed  bed  of  state. 
Closed  around  with  solemn  mystery 

As  a  kingly  purple  pall, 
High  it  towered,  a  silent  history 

Of  departed  funeral. 
And  with  eyes  amazed — distended 

By  their  dread  and  spell-bound  look — • 
Basil  gazed  in  stony  horror : 

Lo  !  the  trailing  curtains  shook. 

And  a  groan  of  hollow  anguish 

From  the  close-drawn  hangings  broke, 
As  if  one  for  ages  sleeping 

Suddenly  to  torture  woke. 
God  of  terror  ! — slowly  parted 

By  a  wan  and  spectral  hand, 
BacK  were  drawn  the  purple  curtains — 

Back,  as  with  a  spirit  wand : 
And  a  face  of  ghostly  beauty, 

With  its  dark  and  streaming  hair, 
And  its  eyes  of  ghoul-like  brightness, 

Seemed  upon  his  sense  to  glare. 

How  in  that  terrific  moment 

Basil's  senses  kept  their  throne, 
Is  alone  to  God  and  angels 

In  its  wondrous  mystery  known. 
How  he  gathered  faith  and  firmness 

To  uplift  his  ag'd  hand, 
And  address  the  disembodied, 

Man  may  never  understand : 
Save  that  in  the  ghostly  features 

Still  a  semblance  he  descried 
To  the  high  and  lovely  lady 

\Vrho  had  been  his  master's  bride. 

"  Tn  the  name  of  God  the  Father, 
In  the  name  of  God  the  Son, 

In  the  name  of  a'l  good  angels, 
Speak  to  me,  unearthly  one ! 

Answer  why,  from  wave  returning, 
Moanest  thou  in  anguish  here ; 

Surely  for  some  holy  purpose 


I  Thou  art  suffered  to  appear. 

If  for  evil  I  defy  thee, 

By  the  cross  upon  my  breast, 
By  my  faith  in  life  eternal, 

And  my  yearning  hope  for  rest." 

Then  with  moveless  lips  the  phantom 

Spake  in  low  and  hollow  tones, 
As  if  shaped  to  words  and  meaning 

Were  the  night-wind's  hollow  moans. 
"  Basil !  darkly  was  I  murdered 

Sailing  on  the  river  Rhine, 
By  thy  harsh  and  ruthless  master, 

Last  of  an  illustrious  line. 
False  the  tale  his  lips  have  uttered, 

Fa'.sc  the  tears  his  eyes  have  shed — 
I  was  hurled  upon  the  water 

With  the  marks  of  murder  red  ! 

"  Basil  !  thou  art  good  and  faithful : 

Thee  I  charge,  by  hopes  divine, 
With  a  hundred  chanted  masses 

Shrive  my  soul  by  Mary's  shrine. 
None  shall  stay  thy  holy  fervor, 

None  forbid  the  sacred  rite ; 
For  thy  master's  life  is  destined 

To  expire  in  crime  to-night !" 
Fixed  in  awe,  the  aged  Basil 

Gazing  on  the  spectre  stood ; 
But  not  with  the  waning  phantom 

Passed  away  his  icy  mood. 

Long  in  that  drear  Indian  Chamber, 

Like  a  form  of  sculptured  stone, 
Kept  the  old  and  awe-struck  servant 

Vigil  terrible  and  lone ; 
Till  the  sound  of  coining  footsteps, 

And  of  voices  loud  and  clear, 
And  of  ringing  spur  and  sabre, 

Smote  upon  his  spell-bound  ear: 
And  in  haste  the  door  was  opened, 

And  with  high  and  plumed  crest 
Entered  in  the  noble  baron, 

Ushering  in  a  foreign  guest. 

"  Basil !  all  is  dark  and  sombre  ; 

Cast  fresh  fagots  on  the  hearth, 
And  illume  the  silver  sconces 

To  preside  above  our  mirth. 
Let  the  chamber  glow  like  sunlight ; 

111  this  gloom  befits  our  glee." 
Then  loud  laughed  the  stately  baron — 

Seldom,  seldom  so  laughed  he. 
'Twas  a  sound  that  chilled  with  terror 

All  that  knew  his  nature  well: 
'Twas  the  heaven's  electric  flashing 

Ere  the  bolt  of  lightning  fell. 


Now  the  chamber  glowed  like  sunl'uht- 

Strange  and  wondrous  in  that  glare 
Was  the  weird  and  ancient  arras, 

Were  the  figures  woven  there ; 
Wavering  with  the  flickering  torches 

Seemed  the  motley  multitude ; 
Twisting  serpent,  rolling  chariot, 

All  with  ghostly  life  imbued  ; 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND    ELEANOR   LEE. 


Crouching  tiger — hideous  idol — 

All  that  grand  and  splendid  masque. 
Mixture  strange  of  truth  and  fable, 

As  in  sunshine  seemed  to  bask. 
"  Long  have  I  sojourned  in  India," 

Thus  the  lofty  stranger  said; 
"There,  for  wealth  and  idle  treasure, 

Health,  and  youth,  and  blood,  I  shed. 
And  I  feel  like  one  who  dreameth, 

As  I  on  these  walls-  survey 
All  those  objects  so  familiar, 

Year  by  year  and  day  by  day." 
Ail  in  strange  and  blended  splendor, 

Like  a  vision  of  the  night — - 
Never  yet  on  earthly  fabric 

Glowed  a  scene  so  rich  and  bright 
Fixed  upon  the  spell-wrought  arras 

Was  the  eastern  stranger's  gaze  ; 
With  his  head  and  heart  averted, 

There  he  dreamed  of  other  days : 
When,  with  eyes  of  watchful  terror, 

Basil  saw  his  master  glide, 
And  within  the  golden  chalice 

Brimming  with  its  purple  tide, 
With  a  stealthy,  glancing  motion, 

As  a  conjuror  works  his  spell, 
Cast  a  drop  of  ruby  liquid 

From  a  tiny  rose-lipped  shell. 
"  Hither  turn,  thou  eastern  dreamer: 

Pledge  me  in  this  golden  cup ; 
'Tis  our  old  and  feudal  custom — 

He  who  tastes  must  quaff  it  up.    . 
Why  that  brow  of  gloom  and  pallor  1 

Answer,  why  that  sudden  start  1" 
Low  the  eastern  stranger  muttered 

Of  the  spells  that  chilled  his  heart  : 
"No  !   my  eves  have  not  deceived  me, 

As  I  fondly  dreamed  erewhile ; 
See  the  victim's  bride  descending 

From  the  rajah's  funeral  pile. 
"  See,  she  cometh  ! — wildly  streaming 

Are  her  robes — her  raven  hair  : 
See,  she  cometh ;  darkly  gleaming 

From  her  eyes  their  fell  despair ! 
Now  she  stands  beside  the  altar, 

In  the  Brainin's  sacred  shrine ; 
Now  a  jewelled  cup  she  seizes — 

Flames  within  it  seem  to  shine; 
Now,  O  God  !   she  leaves  the  arras — 

Steps  upon  the  chamber  floor  : 
We  are  lost — the  prey  of  demons ; 

Baron,  I  will  gaze  no  more  !" 
Turned  away  the  soul-sick  stranger, 

Traversed  he  the  chamber  high, 
When  the  baron's  awful  aspect 

Chained  his  step  and  fixed  his  eye. 
Never  from  his  memory  perished 

Through  long  years  of  after-life 
In  the  camp,  the  court,  the  battle, 

That  remorseful  face  of  strife. 
Rooted  as  a  senseless  statue, 

In  his  hand  the  cup  of  gold  ; 
Lips  apart  and  eyes  distended, 

Stood  the  Norman  baron  bold  ! 


|       High  her  cup  the  phantom  lifted, 

Flames  within  it  seemed  to  roll ; 
Then  alone  these  words  she  uttered — 

"  Pledge  me  in  thy  feudal  bowl !" 
Chained  and  speechless,  guest  and  servant 

Saw  the  baron  drain  the  draught; 
Saw  him  fall  convulsed  and  blackened 

As  the  deadly  bowl  he  quaffed  ; 
Saw  the  phantom  bending  o'er  him, 

As  libation  on  his  head 
Slowly,  and  with  mien  exulting, 

From  the  cup  of  flames  she  shed. 

Then  a  shriek  of  smothered  anguish 

Rang  the  Indian  Chamber  through 
WThile  a  gust  of  icy  bleakness 

From  the  waving  arras  blew. 
In  its  breath  the  watchers  shuddered, 

And  the  portals  open  rung, 
And  the  ample  hearth  was  darkened, 

As  if  ice  was  on  it  flung; 
And  the  lofty  torches  warring 

For  a  moment  in  the  blast, 
In  their  sconces  were  extinguished, 

Leaving  darkness  o'er  the  past ! 


SHE  COMES  TO  ME. 

SHE  comes  to  me  in  robes  of  snow, 
The  friend  of  all  my  sinless  years-  - 

Even  as  I  saw  her  long  ago, 

Before  she  left  this  vale  of  tears. 

She  comes  to  me  in  robes  of  snow- 
She  walks  the  chambers  of  my  rest, 

With  soundless  footsteps,  sad  and  slow, 
That  wake  no  echo  in  my  breast. 

I  see  her  in  my  visions  yet, 
I  see  her  in  my  waking  hours ; 

Upon  her  pale,  pure  brow  is  set 

A  crown  of  azure  hyacinth  flowers. 

Her  golden  hair  waves  round  her  face, 
And  o'er  her  shoulders  gently  falls  : 

Each  ringlet  hath  the  nameless  grace 
My  spirit  yet  on  earth  recalls. 

And,  bending  o'er  my  lowly  bed, 

She  murmurs — "  Oh,  fear  not  to  die  !• 

For  thee  an  angel's  tears  are  shed, 
An  angel's  feast  is  spread  on  high. 

t;  Come,  then,  and  meet  the  joy  divim 
That  features  of  the  spirits  wear  • 

A  fleeting  pleasure  here  is  thine— 
An  angel's  crown  awaits  thee  there. 

"  Listen  !  it  is  a  choral  hymn" — 
And,  gliding  softly  from  my  couch, 

II-T  spiru-face  waxed  faint  and  dim, 
Her  white  robes  vanished  at  my  touch 

She  leaves  me  with  her  robes  of  snow — 
Hushed  is  the  voice  that  used  to  thrill 

Around  the  couch  of  pain  and  wo — 
She  leaves  me  to  my  darkness  still. 


340 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND   ELEANOR   LEE. 


I  WALK  IN   DREAMS  OF  POETRY. 

I  WALK  in  dreams  of  poetry  ; 

They  compass  me  around  ; 
1  hear  a  low  and  startling  voice 

In  every  passing  sound  ; 
I  meet  in  every  gleaming  star, 

On  which  at  eve  1  gaze, 
A  deep  and  glorious  eye,  to  fill 

My  soul  with  burning  rays. 

I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry ; 

'I  he  very  air  I  breathe 
Is  filled  with  visions  wild  and  free, 

That  round  my  spirit  wreathe ; 
A  shade,  a  sigh,  a  floating  cloud, 

A  low  and  whispered  tone — 
These  have  a  language  to  my  brain, 

A  language  deep  and  lone. 

I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry, 

And  in  my  spirit  bow 
Unto  a  lone  and  distant  shrine, 

That  none  around  me  know. 
From  every  heath  and  hill  I  bring 

A  garland  rich  and  rare, 
Of  flowery  thought  and  murmuring  sigh, 

To  wreathe  mine  altar  fair. 
I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry  : 

Strange  spells  are  on  me  shed ; 
I  have  a  world  within  my  soul 

Where  no  one  else  may  tread — 
A  deep  and  wide-spread  universe, 

Where  spirit-sound  and  sight 
Mine  inward  vision  ever  greet 

With  fair  and  radiant  light. 
My  footsteps  tread  the  earth  below, 

While  soars  my  soul  to  heaven : 
Small  is  my  portion  here — yet  there 

Bright  realms  to  me  are  given. 
I  clasp  my  kindred's  greeting  hands, 

Walk  calmly  by  their  side, 
And  yet  I  feel  between  us  stands 

A  barrier  deep  and  wide. 
I  watch  their  deep  and  household  joy 

Around  the  evening  hearth, 
When  the  children  stand  beside  each  knee 

With  laugh  and  shout  of  mirth. 
But  oh !  I  feel  unto  my  soul 

A  deeper  joy  is  brought — 
To  rush,  with  eagle  wings  and  strong, 

Up  in  a  heaven  of  thought. 
I  watch  them  in  their  sorrowing  hours, 

When,  with  their  spirits  tossed, 
I  hear  them  wail  with  bitter  cries 

Their  earthly  prospects  crossed; 
I  feel  that  I  have  sorrows  wild 

In  my  heart  buried  deep — 
Immortal  griefs,  that  none  may  shar ) 

With  me — nor  eyes  can  weep. 
And  strange  it  is :  I  can  riot  say 

If  it  is  wo  or  weal, 
Thut  thus  unto  my  heart  can  flow 

Fountains  so  few  may  feel ; 
The  gift  thai  can  my  spirit  raise 

The  cold,  dark  earth  above, 


Has  flung  a  bar  between  my  soul 
And  many  a  heart  I  love. 

Yet  I  walk  in  dreams  of  poetry, 

And  would  not  change  that  path, 
Though  on  it  from  a  darkened  sky 

W7ere  poured  a  tempest's  wrath. 
Its  flowers  are  mine,  its  deathless  blooms, 

I  know  not  yet  the  thorn  ; 
I  dream  not  of  the  evening  glooms 

In  this  my  radiant  morn. 

Oh  !  still  in  dreams  of  poetry 

Let  me  for  ever  tread, 
With  earth  a  temple,  where  divine, 

Bright  oracles  are  shed  : 
They  soften  down  the  earthly  ills 

From  which  they  can  not  save ; 
They  make  a  romance  of  our  life  ; 

They  glorify  the  grave. 


REGRET. 

No  voice  hath  breathed  upon  mine  ear 

Thy  name  since  last  we  met ; 
No  sound  disturbed  the  silence  drear, 
Where  sleep  entombed  from  year  to  year 
Thy  memory,  my  regret. 

It  was  not  just,  it  was  not  meet, 

Poi  one  so  loved  as  I, 
To  coldly  hear  thy  parting  feet, 
To  lose  for  aye  thine  accents  sweet, 

Nor  feel  a  wish  to  die. 

Oh,  no  !  such  heartless  calm  was  not 

The  doom  deserved  by  thee ; 
Thou  whose  devotedness  was  bought 
By  years  of  gloom,  an  alien's  lot, 

.A  grave  beyond  the  sea. 

I  deemed  not  then  that  time  at  last 
Should  link  with  tears  thy  name ; 
And  from  the  ashes  of  the  past, 
That  Sorrow,  with  its  bitter  blast, 
Should  wake  the  avenging  flame. 

I  deemed  not  then  that  when  the  grave 

Had  made  thee  long  its  own, 
My  soul  with  yearnings  deep  should  crave 
The  truth,  the  fervent  love  that  gave 

Thy  heart  iis  passionate  tone. 
And  yield  to  olden  memories 

The  boon  it  once  denied, 
When,  with  calm  brow  and  tearless  eyes, 
I  saw  thy  faded  energies, 

I  mocked  thy  broken  pride. 
All  this  is  past ;  thou  art  at  rest, 

And  now  the  strife  is  mine : 
In  turn  I  bear  the  weary  breast, 
The  restless  heart,  the  brain  oppressed, 

That  in  those  years  were  thine. 

And  all  too  late,  the  consciousness 

Of  thy  perfections  rare, 
Thy  deep,  thy  fervent  tenderness, 
Thy  true,  thy  strong  devotedness, 

Have  waked  me  to  despair. 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND    ELEANOR   LEE. 


SONG. 

I  XEVEK  knew  how  dear  thou  wert, 

Till  I  was  on  the  silent  sea ; 
And  then  my  lone  and  musing  heart 

Sent  hack  its  passionate  thoughts  to  thee. 
When  the  wind  slept  on  ocean's  hreast, 

And  the  moon  smiled  ahove  the  deep, 
I  longed  thus  o'er  thy  spirit's  rest 

A  vigil  like  yon  moon  to  keep. 

When  the  gales  rose,  and,  tempest-tossed, 

Our  struggling  ship  was  sore  heset, 
Our  topsails  rent,  our  bearing  lost, 

And  fear  in  every  spirit  met — 
Oh  !  then,  amid  the  midnight  storm, 

Peace  on  my  soul  thy  memory  shed  : 
The  floating  image  of  thy  form 

Made  strong  my  heart  amid  its  dread. 

Yes  !  on  the  dark  and  troubled  sea, 
.  I  strove  my  spirit's  depths  to  know, 
And  found  its  deep,  deep  love  for  thee, 

Fathomless  as  the  gulfs  below. 
The  waters  bore  me  on  my  way — 

Yet,  oh !  more  swift  than  rushing  streams, 
To  thee  flew  back,  from  day  to  day, 

My  clinging  love — my  burning  dreams. 


THE  BIRD  OF  WASHINGTON. 

SUGGESTED    BY    AN    INCIDENT    IN    AUDUBON 

ABOVE  that  dark,  romantic  stream, 
Gray  rocks  and  gloomy  forests  tower, 

And  o'er  its  sullen  floods  the  dream 
Of  Lethe  seems  to  lower  ; 

Low,  shadowed  by  its  frowning  steeps, 

The  deep  and  turbid  river  sweeps. 

It  sweeps  along  through  many  a  cleft 

And  chasm  in  the  mountains  gray, 
Which  in  forgotten  years  were  reft 

To  give  its  waters  way  ; 
And  far  above,  in  martial  lines, 
Like  warriors,  stand  the  plumed  pines. 
Erect  and  firm  they  lift  on  high 

Their  pointed  tops  and  funeral  spires, 
And  seem  to  pierce  the  sunset  sky, 

And  bask  amid  its  fires ; 
Arid  when  the  mountain-winds  are  loud, 
Their  branches  swell  the  anthem  proud. 

Few  steps  have  dared  those  rugged  ways — 

The  precipice  is  steep  and  stern ; 
And  those  who  on  its  ramparts  gaze 

From  the  drear  aspect  turn, 
WTith  little  heart  to  tempt  the  path 
Bared  by  the  storm  and  lightning's  wrath. 
But  those  who  love  the  awful  might 

Of  Nature's  dreariest  solitude, 
May  find  on  that  repulsive  height 

A  scene  to  match  their  mood ; 
And  from  its  summit  look  abroad 
On  the  primeval  works  of  God. 
There,  in  that  loneliness  profound, 

The  soul  puts  forth  a  stronger  wing, 


And  soars,  from  worldly  chains  unbound, 

A  proud,  triumphant  thing, 
To  claim  its  kindred  with  the  sky, 
And  feel  its  latent  deity. 

'T  was  there  that,  at  the  set  of  sun, 
A  traveller  watched  an  eagle's  flight — 

Now  lost  amid  the  vapors  dun 
That  ushered  in  the  night, 

Now  wheeling  through  the  vault  of  space, 

In  wild  intricacies  of  grace. 

And  as  declined  the  crimson  gleam 
Behind  the  mountain's  purple  crest, 

He  saw  him  sink,  with  sudden  scream, 
Upon  his  rocky  nest; 

Then,  clambering  up  the  rugged  way, 

The  traveller  sought  his  kingly  prey. 

Through  bush  and  brake,  o'er  loosened  rock, 
That,  sliding  from  his  footsteps  slow, 

Went  plunging  with  a  sudden  shock 
Into  the  wave  below ; 

O'er  fallen  tree,  and  serpents'  brood, 

He  sought  the  eagle's  solitude. 

Emerging  from  the  coppice  dark 

That  crowned  the  frowning  precipice, 

He  stood  in  silent  awe  to  mark 
The  fathomless  abvss 

Which  yawned  beneath  him  deep  and  stern, 

And  barred  him  from  the  eagle's  cairn. 

A  deer,  half  maddened  by  the  chase, 

Had  once  in  safety  leaped  across : 
Such  was  the  legend  of  the  place — 

Yet  difficult  it  was 
For  those  who  heard  to  comprehend 
How  fear  itself  such  strength  could  lend. 
And  thus  divided  from  his  prey, 

The  traveller  watched  that  mountain  king, 
As,  gazing  on  the  dying  day, 

He  sat  with  folded  wing, 
And  looked  the  fable  of  the  Greek — 
The  bird  with  thunder  in  his  beak. 
So  calm,  so  full  of  quiet  might 

He  seemed  upon  his  craggy  throne ; 
In  his  dark  eye  so  much  of  light, 

Of  mind,  of  meaning  shone, 
That  for  a  moment  hand  and  heart 
Refused  to  do  their  deadly  part. 

Exulting  creature  !  thee  no  more 

The  sunlight  summoned  from  thy  rest 

On  wild  and  warring  wing  to  soar, 
With  tempest  on  thy  crest; 

No  more  the  glorious  day's  decline 

Brought  calm  repose  to  heart  of  thine 

Whelmed  in  the  life-stream  of  thy  breast, 
Thine  eaglets  perished  in  their  lair, 

And  thou,  upon  thy  crag-perched  nest, 
In  impotent  despair, 

In  wild,  in  sick,  in  deadly  strife, 

Didst  yield  thy  glorious  mountain  Jife  ? 

Then  falling  from  thine  eyry  lone. 

Where  oft  with  proud,  unquailing  eyo 

Thou  didst  survey  the  noonday  sun, 


342 


CATHERINE    WARFIELD    AND    ELEANOR   LEE. 


To  worship  or  defy  ; 

Where  oil  thy  voice  outshrieked  the  blast — 
The  stream  received  his  lord  at  last. 

But.  eagle  !  no  ungenerous  foe 

Was  he  who  snatched  thee  from  the  wave, 
And  watched  thv  last,  expiring  throe 

With  sighs  for  one  so  Grave  : 
He  gave  thee,  monarch  of  the  river, 
A  name  that  bids  thee  live  for  ever ! 


THE   DESERTED  HOUSE. 

ROUND  that  house,  deserted  lying, 
Wearily  the  winds  are  sighing 
Evermore  with  sound  undying 

Through  the  empty  window-pane ; 
As  if  with  its  wails  distressing 
It  could  call  each  earthly  blessing 
From  the  sods  above  them  pressing, 

Back  to  live  and  breathe  again. 

There  the  cuckoo  sits  complaining; 
All  night  long  her  voice  is  straining, 
And  the  empoisoned  oak-vine  training, 

Hangs  its  tendrils  on  the  wall. 
Once  within  those  chambers  dreaming, 
Gentle  looks  of  love  were  gleaming, 
Gentle  tones  with  deep  love  teeming 

Did  unto  each  other  call. 

Far  above  the  roof-tree  failing, 
See  the  hoary  vulture  sailing; 
MarketK  she  the  serpent  trailing 

Underneath  the  threshold-stone. 
Heaven's  bright  messengers  resembling, 
Ringdoves  here  of  old  were  trembling, 
As  round  some  fair  hand  assembling, 

They  were  fed  by  her  alone. 

Through  the  chamber-windows  prying, 
Softly  on  the  dark  floor  lying, 
See  the  ghostly  moonlight,  flying 

Through  the  untrodden  gloom. 
Seems  it  not  to  thee  sweet  faces, 
Shadowy  forms  of  vanished  graces, 
Stealing,  flitting  to  their  places, 

In  that  long-forsaken  room  1 

Where  the  darkened  stairway  windeth, 
There  her  brood  the  eagle  mindeth, 
And  with  chains  Arachne  bindeth 

Balustrade  to  balustrade. 
Once  so  lightly  upward  bounding 
Fairy  steps  were  heard  resounding, 
While  sweet  laughter  wild,  astounding, 

Echoes  through  the  mansion  made. 

Round  the  oaken  tables  spreading, 
Through  the  hall  the  guests  were  treading, 
Where  the  festal  lamps  were  shedding 

Light  upon  the  ruby  wine: 
Now  swift  through  the  doorway  shrunken, 


Creeping  o'er  the  threshold  sunken, 
With  the  dew  and  starlight  drunken, 
Reptile  insects  seem  to  twine. 

fn  the  parlor,  long  forsaken, 

Once  the  lute  was  wont  to  waken ; 

And  with  locks  all  lightly  shaken, 

Maids  and  matrons  joined  in  mirth. 
Gentle  accents  here  were  swelling, 
Hallowed  voices  often  telling 
Heaven  alone  was  Virtue's  dwelling : 

All  these  beings  rest  in  earth. 

Mid  these  garden  flowerets  pining, 
'Neath  the  starlight  dimly  shining, 
Where  the  deadly  vine  is  twining, 

Once  were  glorious  bowers. 
Once  were  gladsome  children  playing, 
O'er  the  grass  plots  lightly  straying, 
With  their  golden  ringlets  swaying 

'Neath  their  crowns  of  flowers. 

By  yon  gnarled  oak's  curious  twisting, 
Here  was  once  a  lover's  trysting, 
Fondly  to  each  other  listing, 

Wrhile  they  told  their  plighting  vows. 
Often  when  the  lightning  streaketh, 
And  the  wind  its  branches  seeketh. 
Then  that  olden  oak-tree  speaketh, 

And  sweet  voices  fill  the  boughs. 

Could  we  bring  again  the  glory 
To  this  mansion  gray  and  hoary, 
Flinging  light  on  every  story, 

Yet  it  would  be  desolate. 
Yet  (they  say)  'tis  doomed  hereafter; 
Forms  shall  gleam  from  wall  and  rafter 
Full  of  silent  tears  and  laughter, 

Mingling  with  a  human  fate. 

Some  indeed  have  said  that,  creeping, 
Nightly  from  the  window  peeping, 
Lightly  from  the  casement  leaping, 

They  a  ghostly  maid  have  seen. 
On  the  broken  gate  she  swingeth, 
And  her  wanlike  hands  she  wringeth, 
And  with  garments  white  she  wingeth 

O'er  the  grassy  plain  so  green. 

To  the  dark  oak-tree  she  cometh, 
Round  its  trunk  she  wildly  roameth, 
Shuddering,  as  the  dark  stream  foametli ; 

There  she  roves  till  break  of  day. 
Hers  they  say  was  love  illicit, 
Yet  from  out  her  murdered  spirit 
This  sad  mansion  did  inherit 

A  curse  never  done  away ! 

Therefore,  in  the  balance  weighing, 

Underneath  the  rods  decaying, 

With  their  white  hands  clasped  as  praying. 

Sleep  the  owners  of  the  spot ; 
While  this  home  of  the  departed, 
Making  sad  the  lightest-hearted, 
Standeth  still,  a  house  deserted — 

By  the  world,  save  me,  forgot. 


SUSAN    PINDAR. 


THIS  clever  young  poet  was  born  at  Pin 
dar's  Vale,  an  estate  near  Wolfert's  Roost, 
the  seat  of  Mr.  Irving,  on  the  Hudson.  Her 
fa! her,  who  had  been  engaged  in  commerce, 
failing  in  some  important  speculations,  went 
to  New  Orleans  to  retrieve  his  fortunes,  and 
died  there  ;  and  Miss  Pindar  was  soon  afier 
deprived  of  all  near  kindred  by  the  decease 
of  her  brothers.  Her  poems  have  been  pub 


lished  chiefly  in  The  Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine.  Some  of  them  are  distinguished  fora 
graceful  play  of  fancy  and  womanly  feeling, 
and  others  for  a  happy  vein  of  wit  and  hu 
mor.  She  seems  to  write  with  much  facil 
ity,  and  the  elegance  of  her  compositions 
indicates  the  careful  mental  discipline,  with 
out  which  no  degree  of  genius  has  yet  pnabled 
I  an.  author  to  win  a  desirable  reputation. 


THE  SPIRIT  MOTHER. 

ART  thou  near  me,  spirit  mother, 

When,  in  the  twilight  hour, 
A  holy  hush  pervades  my  heart 

With  a  mysterious  power : 
While  eyes  of  dreamy  tenderness 

Seem  gazing  into  mine, 
And  stir  the  fountains  of  my  soul — • 

Sweet  mother,  are  they  thine  ] 

Is  thine  the  blessed  influence 

That  o'er  my  being  flings 
A  sense  of  rest,  as  though  'twere  wrapped 

Within  an  angel's  wings  1 
A  deep,  abiding  trustfulness, 

That  seems  an  earnest  given 
Of  future  happiness  and  peace 

To  those  who  dwell  in  heaven  ! 

And  ofttimes  when  my  footsteps  stray 

In  error's  shining  track, 
There  comes  a  soft,  restraining  voice, 

That  seems  to  call  me  back ; 
I  hear  it  not  with  outward  ears, 

But  with  a  power  divine 
Its  whisper  thrills  my  inmost  soul  : 

Sweet  mother,  is  it  thine  1 

It  well  may  be,  for  know  we  not 

That  beings  all  unseen 
Are  ever  hovering  o'er  our  paths, 

The  earth  and  sky  between  1 
They  're  with  us  in  our  daily  walks, 

And  tireless  vigils  keep, 
To  weave  those  happy  fantasies 

That  bless  our  hours  of  sleep ! 

Oh,  could  we  feel  that  spirit-eyes 

For  ever  on  v?s  gaze, 
And  watch  each  idle  thought  that  threads 

The  heart's  bewildering  maze, 
Would  we  not  guard  each  careless  word, 

All  sinful  feelings  quell, 
Lest  we  should  grieve  the  cherished  ones 

We  loved  on  earth  so  well  1 


Sweet  spirit  mother,  bless  thy  child  ! 

And  with  a  holy  love 
Inspire  my  feeble  energies, 

And  lift  my  heart  above  ; 
And  when  the  long-imprisoned  soul 

These  earthly  bonds  has  riven, 
Be  thine  the  wing  to  bear  it  up 

And  waft  it  on  to  heaven. 


THE  LADY  LEONORE. 

OUT  upon  the  waters  foaming, 

O'er  the  deep,  dark  sea, 
A  maiden  through  the  twilight  gloaming 

Gazeth  earnestly  : 
Mighty  waves,  tempestuous  dashing, 

Burst  upon  the  shore ; 
Recks  she  not  their  angry  lashing, 
Heeds  she  not  the  tempest  crashing, 

Lady  Leonore  ! 

She  was  Beauty's  fairest  daughter, 

Glorious  in  her  pride  ; 
Noble  suitors  oft  had  sought  her, 

Countless  hearts  had  sighed  ; 
Vainly  the  impassioned  lover 

Burning  words  did  pour  : 
Bright  and  cold  as  stars  above  her, 
Failed  all  tearful  sighs  to  move  her, 

Cruel  Leonore  ! 

One  there  was,  of  noble  bearing, 

Lowly  in  his  birthi— 
Worthy  he  of  all  comparing 

With  the  great  of  earth  ; 
Dared  he  own  Love's  sacred  feeling, 

The  humble  troubadour  1 
O'er  his  harp-strings  wildly  stealing. 
Every  strain  his  soul  revealing, 

Worshipped  Leonore. 

Loved  she  him  1 — what  soft  commotion 
Stirred  within  her  breast, 

Wakening  each  fond  emotion 
With  a  sweet  unrest 
34.1 


344 


SUSAN    PINDAR. 


Pride  all  tender  ties  doth  sever — 

And  they  met  no  more. 
Could  she  wed  a  minstrel  ?— never ! 
Left  he  then  his  home  for  ever — • 

Haughty  Leonore  ! 
Now  his  image  sadlv  keeping 
Shrined  within  her  heart, 
Dimmed  her  eyes  with  ceaseless  weeping 

Smiles  for  aye  depart  : 
Love  with  fond  resistless  yearning 

Bids  her  him  restore  ; 
While  the  beacon-light  is  burning, 
Waiteth  she  his  glad  returning, 

Tender  Leonore  ! 
Wildly  now  the  tempest  rushing 

On  its  fearful  path, 
Every  fated  object  crushing 

In  its  furious  wrath. 
List ! — that  shriek  of  wo  despairing, 

Rising  mid  the  roar; 
To  her  heart  what  anguish  bearing, 
Where  she  stands  the  storm-king  daring, 

Faithful  Leonore  ! 
Soon  the  early  dawn  is  breaking, 

Glorious  and  serene, 
And  the  sun,  in  splendor  waking, 

Smiles  upon  the  scene. 
A  maiden  clasps  her  lifeless  lover 

On  the  wreck-strewn  shore: 
Moaning  surges  break  above  her — 
But  for  her  all  storms  are  over, 

Hapless  Leonore  ! 

BURIAL  OF  WILLIAM  THE  CONQJJEROR 

WITH  slow  and  solemn  tread, 
Through  aisles  where  warrior-figures  grim 

Stand  forth  in  shadowy  gloom, 
While  loudly  pea's  the  funeral  hymn, 
And  censors  waft  perfume, 
Bring  they  the  kingly  dead. 
They  bear  him  to  his  rest, 
Around  whose  lofty  deeds  is  cast 

The  panoply  of  fame  ; 
Who  gave  his  war-cry  to  the  blast, 
And  left  a  conqueror's  mighty  name 
His  nation's  proud  bequest. 
Around  his  royal  bier 
The  chieftains  stand,  in  reverence  bowed, 

Amid  a  hush  profound  ; 
When  from  the  vast  assembled  crowd 
A  solemn  voice,  with  warning  sound, 
Rung  on  each  startled  ear. 
"  Forbear  !"  it  cried,  "  forbear  ! 
This  ground  mine  heritage  I  claim  ; 

Here  bloomed  our  household  vine, 
Until  this  dread  despoiler  came, 

And  crushed  its  roots  to  raise  this  shrine 
Fn  mockery  of  prayer  ! 

"  By  all  your  hopes  of  earth, 
As  ye  before  the  throne  of  Heaven 
In  judgment  shall  appear, 


As  ye  would  pray  your  sins  forgiven, 
Lay  not  the  tyrant's  ashes  here 
Upon  my  father's  hearth  !" 
Mute  stood  those  warriors  bold, 
Each  swarthy  cheek  grew  red  with  shame, 

Tiiat  ne'er  with  fear  had  paled  ; 
And  for  his  dust,  before  whose  name 
The  bravest  hearts  in  terror  quailed, 
They  bought  a  grave  with  gold. 
Oh,  Victory,  veil  thy  brow! 
What  are  thy  pageants  of  an  hour — 

Thy  wreath,  when  stained  with  crime  1 
Oh,  fame,  ambition,  haughty  power  ! 
Ye  bubbles  on  the  stream  of  time, 
W7here  are  your  glories  now  1 


LAURALIE. 

LIGHTEN  than  the  sunbeam's  ray, 

Dawning  on  the  sea, 
Graceful  as  a  moonlight  fay, 
WTas  she  who  won  all  hearts  away — 

Lauralie  ! 
Tresses  bright  of  golden  hair, 

Flowing  wild  and  free, 
Down  her  cheek  beyond  compare, 
Nestling  in  her  bosom  fair — 

Lauralie  ! 
By  the  heaven  within  her  eyes, 

Plainly  might  you  see, 
She  had  stolen  their  glorious  dyes 
From  the  laughing  summer  skies — 

Lauralie  ! 
Less  beautiful  than  good  and  kind, 

Pure  as  snow  was  she  ; 
All  gentle  thoughts  dwelt  in  her  mind, 
By  innocence  and  truth  refined — 

Lauralie  ! 
A  tall  knight  came,  with  bearing  bold, 

And  tender  vows  breathed  he ; 
Alas  !  a  tale  too  often  told, 
He  won  her  heart,  his  love  waned  cold 

Lauralie  ! 
He  brought  a  fair  and  haughty  bride 

From  o'er  the  sea  ; 
And  as  he  feasted  at  her  side, 
A  maiden  sought  his  feet  and  died — 

Lauralie  ! 
Now  doth  the  broken-hearted  sleep 

Beneath  the  linden  tree ; 
Above  the  sod  the  wild  vines  creep, 
And  maidens  seek  the  spot  to  weep  : 

Lauralie  ! 
But  he — the  false  one ! — knows  not  rest, 

Dishonored  now  is  he  ; 
His  faithless  bride  has  left  his  breast : 
Oh,  well  are  all  thy  wrongs  redressed, 

Lauralie  ! 
A  maniac  wild,  he  smiles  no  more, 

But  wanders  by  the  sea, 
And  mutters,  mid  the  tempest's  roar, 
The  name  he  traces  on  the  shore 

Lauralie  ! 


SUSAN    PINDAR. 


345 


GREENWOOD. 

THERE  is  a  spot  far  in  the  green  still  wood, 
Where  Nature  reigns  in  majesty  alone, 
Where  the  tall  trees  for  countless  years  have  stood, 
And  flowers  have  bloomed  and  faded  all  unknown; 
Where  fearless  birds  soar  through  the  morning  skies, 
And  fill  the  air  with  varied  melodies, 
While  o'er  the  water's  breast  dark  shadows  brood, 
Flung  by  the  clustering  boughs,  a  glorious  solitude ! 

It  is  a  holy  place,  so  cairn  and  still, 
So  wrapped  in  shades  of  peaceful  quietude : 
A  sense  of  awe  the  inmost  soul  doth  thrill, 
And  tunes  the  spirit  to  a  higher  mood, 
When  in  the  precincts  of  that  sacred  spot 
The  busy  cares  of  life  are  all  forgot. 
Let  not  a  foot-fall,  with  irreverent  sound, 
Startle  the  echoes  of  the  hallowed  ground. 

The  dead  are  with  us,  where  green  branches  wave, 
And  where  the  pine  boughs  cast  a  deeper  gloom ; 
Yonder  a  rose-tree  marks  an  early  grave, 
And  there  proud  manhood  sleeps  beneath  the  tomb ; 
The  young  high  heart  with  vague,  bright  dreamings 
Too  pure  for  earth,  yet  haply  now  fulfilled,    [filled, 
Lies  mute,  perchance  by  his  who  knew  not  rest, 
Until  the  damp  sod  pressed  his  aching  breast. 

And  doth  it  not  seem  meet, 
That  there  earth's  weary  pilgrims  should  repose, 
Far  from  the  hurrying  tread  of  eager  feet, 
WThere  the  last  sunbeams  at  the  daylight's  close 
Quiver  like  golden  harpstrings  mid  the  trees, 
While  with  a  spirit's  touch  the  evening  breeze 
Wakens  a  requiem  for  the  sleepers  there, 
And  Nature's  every  breath  seems  fraught  with 
prayer  ! 

And  when  the  twilight,  in  her  robe  of  gray, 
Flings  o'er  the  earth  a  veil  of  mystic  light, 
While  as  the  glow  of  even  melts  away, 
Thie  stars  above  grow  more  intensely  bright, 
Even  as  the  promise  that  our  God  has  given, 
As  fade  our  hopes  on  earth,  so  grow  they  bright  in 

heaven : 

Might  we  not  deem  them  holy  spirit-eyes, 
Their  vigils  keeping  in  the  silent  skies  1 

Oh,  noiseless  city  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Lonely  and  mute,  yet  are  thy  annals  fraught 
With  solemn  teachings,  and  thy  broad  page  spread 
WTith  the  rich  lore  of  soul-awakening  thought ; 
And  when  the  wanderer  on  the  future  shores 
Shall  seek  its  hidden  mysteries  to  explore. 
Thy  hallowed  shades,  with  spirit-voices  rife, 
May  lead  him  onward  to  the  gates  of  life. 


THOUGHTS  IN  SPRING-TIME. 

FAR  in  some  still,  sequestered  nook, 
Removed  from  worldly  strife, 

How  calmly,  like  a  placid  brook, 
Would  glide  the  stream  of  life  ! 

How  sweet  in  temples  God  has  made 
To  raise  the  voice  of  prayer, 

While  songsters  from  the  leafy  glade 
With  music  fill  the  air  ! 

Does  not  the  spirit  seem  to  spurn 
The  fettered  thoughts  of  earth, 

And  with  a  holier  impulse  turn 
To  things  of  higher  birth  ] 

When  in  the  forests'  vast  arcade, 
Where  man  has  seldom  trod, 

Amid  the  works  that  he  has  made, 
We  stand  alone  with  God  1 

When  gazing  on  fair  Nature's  face, 

Untouched  by  hand  of  art, 
In  every  leaf  his  love  we  trace, 

What  feelings  thrill  the  heart ! 

The  diamond  dew-drop  on  the  spray, 

Each  early-fading  flower, 
The  glittering  insects  of  a  day — 

All  show  God's  wondrous  power : 

And  teach  us  by  their  helplessness 

Of  his  unwearied  care, 
Who  gives  the  lily's  vestal  dress, 

And  bids  us  not  despair. 

When  in  the  fading  light  of  day 

The  forest  trees  grow  dim, 
And  evening  comes  in  sober  gray, 

How  turn  our  souls  to  him  ! 

There  is  no  sound  upon  the  air, 

All  living  things  are  still — 
A  solemn  hush  as  if  of  prayer, 

Is  brooding  o'er  the  hill : 
While  far  above,  like  spirit-eyes, 

The  stars  their  vigils  keep, 
And  smile  on  the  fair  stream  that  lies 

Upon  earth's  breast,  asleep. 

There  is  a  spell  that  binds  the  heart 
At  this  most  hallowed  hour, 

And  bids  all  earth-born  thoughts  depart 
Beneath  its  holy  power. 

And  when  to  all  created  things 

A  voice  of  praise  is  given, 
The  spirit 'seems  on  angel  wings 

To  soar  aloft  to  Heaven. 


CAROLINE    MAY. 


Miss  CAROLINE  MAY,  a  daughter  of  the 
Rev.  Edward  Harrison  May,  minister  of  one 
of  the  Reformed  Dutch  churches  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  is  the  author  of  many  very 
graceful  and  striking  poems ;  and  during 


the  present  year  she  has  published,  in  Phila 
delphia,  a  volume  entitled  Specimens  of  the 
America;]  Female  Poets.  Miss  May  hasgiven 
few  of  her  compositions  to  the  public,  and  the 
following,  except  one,  are  now  first  printed, 


THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  YEAR 

IT  is  the  sabbath  of  the  year ; 

And  if  ye  '11  walk  abroad, 
A  holy  sermon  ye  shall  hear, 

Full  worthy  of  record. 
Autumn  the  preacher  is  ;  and  look — • 

As  other  preachers  do, 
He  takes  a  text  from  the  one  Great  Book, 

A  text  both  sad  and  true. 

With  a  deep,  earnest  voice,  he  saith — • 

A  voice  of  gentle  grief, 
Fitting  the  minister  of  Death — 

"Ye  all  fade  as  a  leaf; 
And  your  iniquities,  like  the  wind, 

Have  taken  you  away ; 
Ye  fading  flutterers,  weak  and  blind, 

Repent,  return,  and  pray." 

And  then  the  Wind  ariseth  slow, 

And  giveth  out  a  psalm  — 
And  the  organ-pipes  begin  to  blow, 

Within  the  forest  calm  ; 
Then  all  the  Trees  lift  up  their  hands, 

And  lift  their  voices  higher, 
And  sing  the  notes  of  spirit  bands 

In  full  and  glorious  choir. 
Yes!  'tis  the  sabbath  of  the  year! 

And  it  doth  surely  seem, 
(But  words  of  reverence  and  fear 

Should  speak  of  such  a  theme,) 
That  the  corn  is  gathered  for  the  bread, 

And  the  berries  for  the  wine, 
And  a  sacramental  feast  is  spread, 

Like  the  Christian's  pardon  sign. 

And  the  Year,  with  sighs  of  penitence, 

The  holy  feast  bends  o'er ; 
For  she  must  die,  and  go  out  hence 

Die,  and  bo  scon  no  more. 
Then  are  the  choir  and  organ  still, 

The  psalm  melts  in  the  air, 
The  Wind  bows  down  beside  the  hill, 

And  all  are  hushed  in  prayer. 
Then  comes  the  Sunset  in  the  west, 

Like  a  patriarch  of  old, 
Or  like  a  saint  who  hath  won  his  rest, 

His  robes,  and  his  crown  of  gold  ; 
And  forth  his  arms  he  stretch eth  wide; 

And  with  solemn  tone  and  clear 
He  blesseth,  in  the  eventide, 

The  sabbath  of  the  Year. 


TO  A  STUDENT. 

GIVE  thyself  to  the  beauty 
Of  this  September  day  ! 
And  let  it  be  thy  duty 

To  treasure  every  ray 
Of  the  sweet  light  that  streams  abroad, 
An  emblem  of  its  Maker,  God ! 

Oh  !  put  away  the  learning 

Of  science  and  of  art; 
And  stifle  not  the  yearning 

That  swells  within  thy  heart, 
To  look  upon,  and  love,  and  bless, 
Departing  Summer's  loveliness ! 

Go  out  into  the  garden, 

And  taste  the  sweetness  there — 
(Thy  books  will  surely  pardon 

A  pause  from  studious  care) — 
Of  the  still  lavish  mignonette, 
And  the  few  flowers  that  linger  yet. 
Go,  feel  the  sweet  caressing 

Of  the  south  wind  on  thy  cheek — 
Kind  as  the  breathed-out  blessing 

Of  one  too  sad  to  speak ; 
And  mournful  in  its  music  low 
As  the  dim  thoughts  of  long  ago. 
Lift  up  thy  face  in  gladness 

To  the  sky  so  soft  and  warm, 
And  watch  the  frolic  madness 

Of  the  changeful  clouds,  that  form 
A  mimic  shape,  in  every  change, 
Of  something  beautiful  and  strange. 
Or  go,  if  thou  wouldst  rather, 

To  the  distant  woods,  and  see 
How  surely  thou  wilt  gather 

From  forest  harmony 
Sweet  themes  for  present  songs  of  praise, 
And  hoards  of  thought  for  future  lays. 
Oh  !  it  will  make  thee  better, 

More  wise,  and  glad,  and  kind, 
To  throw  off  every  fetter, 

And  go  with  pliant  mind — 
Like  a  free,  open-hearted  child, 
To  wander  in  the  forests  wild. 
The  love  of  Nature  heightens 
Our  love  to  God  and  man; 
And  a  spirit,  Love  enlightens, 

Farther  than  others  can, 
Pierces  with  clear  and  steady  eyes 
Into  the  land  where  true  thought  lies ' 
346 


CAROLINE    MAY. 


34? 


SONNETS. 

T.    OX    A    WARM    NOVEMBER.    PAY. 

ts  this  November  ]     It  must  surely  be 
That  some  sweet  May  day,  like  a  merry  girl 
With  eye  of  laughing  blue,  and  golden  curl, 

In  the  excess  of  her  light-hearted  glee, 
Has  run  too  far  from  home,  and  lost  her  way ; 

And  now  she  trembles,  while  upon  the  air 

Flutter  the  rainbow  ribands  of  her  hair, 
And  her  warm  breath  comes  quick,  for  fear  her  play 

Should  into  danger  her  wild  footsteps  bring ! 
She  sees  herself  upon  the  barren  heath 
Where,  happily,  November  slumbereth: 

What,  should  he  wake,  and  find  her  trespassing ! 
Yet,  weep  not,  wanderer !  for  I  know  ere  night 
Thou  wilt  be  home  again  laughing  with  safe  delight. 

II.    OX    THE    APPROACH    OF    W1XTER. 

Now  comes  the  herald  of  stern  Winter.  Hear 
The  blast  of  his  loud  trumpet  through  the  air, 
Bidding  collected  families  prepare 

For  the  fierce  king,  without  delay  or  fear ; 

Not  seacoal  fires  alone,  or  cordial  cheer 
Of  generous  wine,  or  raiment  thick  and  warm, 
Though  these  may  make  the  bleak  and  boisterous 

A  picture  for  the  eye,  and  music  for  the  ear ;    [storm 

But  laws  of  kindness,  simple  and  sincere, 
Patient  forbearance,  and  sweet  cheerfulness, 
And  gentle  charity  that  loves  to  bless — 

To  hide  all  faults  as  soon  as  they  appear. 
Without  such  stores,  bought  by  no  golden  price, 
Winter  may  freeze  the  human  blood  to  ice  ! 


III.    THOUGHT. 

So  truly,  faithfully,  my  heart  is  thine, 
Dear  Thought,  that  when  I  am  debarred  from  thee 
By  the  vain  tumult  of  vain  company  ;  ' 

And  when  it  seems  to  be  the  fixed  design 

Of  heedless  hearts,  who  never  can  incline 
Themselves  to  seek  thy  rich  though  hidden  charms, 
To  keep  me  daily  from  thy  outstretched  arms — 

My  soul  sinks  faint  within  me,  and  I  pine 
As  lover  pines  when  from  his  love  apart, 

Who,  after  having  been  long  loved,  long  sought, 
At  length  has  given  to  his  persuasive  art 

Her  generous  soul  with  hope  and  fear  full  fraught : 
For  thou  'rt  the  honored  mistress  of  my  heart, 

Pure,  quiet,  bountiful,  beloved  Thought! 


IV.    HOPE. 


LIKE  the  glad  skylark,  who  each  early  morn 
Springs  from  his  shady  nest  of  weeds  or  flowers, 

And  whether  stormy  clouds,  or  bright,  are  born, 
Pierces  the  realm  of  sunshine  and  of  showers  ; 

And  with  untiring  wing  and  steady  eye, 
And  never  ceasing  song,  (so  loud  and  sweet, 
So  full  of  trusting  love,  that  it  is  meet 

It  should  be  poured  forth  at  heaven's  portals  high,) 
Bears  up  his  sacrifice  of  gratitude  : 

So  Hope — the  one,  the  only  Hope — spreads  out 
Her  wings  from  the  heart's  tearful  solitude, 

(Shadowed  too  oft  with  weeds,)  quivers  about 


The  cloudy  caves  of  earth,  till  sudden  strength  is 

given 
To  dart  above  them  all,  and  soar  with  songs  to 

heaven. 


V.    MEMORY. 

LIKE  the  full-hearted  nightingale, 
Who  careth  not  to  sing  her  sad,  sweet  strain 

To  open  Daylight ;  but  when  pale 
And  thoughtful  Evening  sheds  o'er  plain, 

And  hill,  and  va'e,  a  quiet  sense 
Of  loneliness  unbroken,  then  she  gives 

Her  soul  to  the  deep  influence 
Of  silence  and  of  shade,  and  lives 

A  life  of  mournful  melody 

In  one  short  night :  so  Memory, 
Shrinking  from  daylight's  glare  and  noise, 
Reserves  her  melancholy  joys 

For  the  dark  stillness  of  the  holy  night, 

And  then  she  pours  them  forth  till  dawning  light 


LILIES. 

EVERT  flower  is  sweet  to  me — 

The  rose  and  violet, 
The  pink,  the  daisy,  and  sweet  pea, 

Heart's-ease  and  mignonette, 
And  hyacinths  and  daffodillies: 
But  sweetest  are  the  spotless  lilies. 

I  know  not  what  the  lilies  were 
That  grew  in  ancient  times — • 

When  Jesus  walked  with  children  fair, 
Through  groves  of  eastern  climes, 

And  made  each  flower,  as  he  passed  by  it, 

A  type  of  faith,  content,  and  quiet. 

But  they  were  not.  more  pure  and  bright 
Than  those  our  gardens  show  ; 

Or  those  that  shed  their  silver  light, 
Where  the  dark  waters  flow ; 

Or  those  that  hide  in  woodland  alley, 

The  fragrant  lilies  of  the  valley. 

And  I,  in  each  of  them,  would  see 

Some  lesson  for  my  youth  : 
The  loveliness  of  purity, 

The  stateliness  of  truth, 
Whene'er  I  look  upon  the  lustre 
Of  those  that  in  the  garden  cluster. 

Patience  and  hope,  that  keep  the  sou. 

Unruffled  and  secure, 
Though  floods  of  grief  beneath  it  roll, 

I  learn,  when  calm  and  pure 
I  see  the  floating  water-lily, 
Gleam  amid  shadows  dark  and  chilly 

And  when  the  fragrance  that  ascend* 

Shows  where  its  lovely  face 
The  lily  of  the  valley  bends, 

I  think  of  that  sweet  grace, 
Which  sheds  within  the  spirit  lowlv. 
A  rest,  like  heaven's,  so  safe  and  hob 


:M8 


CAROLINE    MAY. 


TO  NATURE. 

ROCKS,  and  woods,  and  water, 

1  am  now  with  ye ! 
What  a  grateful  daughter 

Ought  I  not  to  be  ! 
Alone  with  Nature — oh,  what  bliss, 
What  a  privilege  is  this  ! 

Give  me  now  a  blessing, 
Help  my  tongue  to  speak 

The  feelings  that  are  pressing 
Till  my  heart  grows  weak — 

Faint  with  the  strange  influence 

Of  this  wild  magnificence. 

I  shut  my  eyes  a  minute, 

Listening  to  the  sound  : 
Music  is  there  in  it, 

Stirring  and  profound  ! 
Wrild-voiced  waters,  babbling  breeze, 
Telling  tales  of  aged  trees  : 

And  the  echoes — hearken  ! 

There  they  chiefly  dwell, 
Where  those  huge  rocks  darken 

That  green  woody  dell  : 
Hearken  with  what  joy  they  spring, 
W  hen  the  village  church  bells  ring  ! 

Up  I  look,  and  follow 

With  my  eyes  the  sound, 

Fading  in  the  hollow 
Of  the  hills  around  ; 

Then  I  clasp  my  hands  and  sigh, 

That  so  soon  the  echoes  die. 

And  I  think  how  fleetly 

Pleasures  that  we  prize, 
Like  the  echoes,  sweetly 

Fade  before  our  eyes  : 
But  'tis  well,  'tis  well  for  me, 
Prone  to  earth  idolatry. 

Oh  !  ye  kingly  mountains, 

With  your  cedar  woods; 
Closing  diamond  fountains 

In  their  solitudes : 
In  my  very  soul  ye  dwell — 
Can  I  love  ye  then  too  well  1 

Oh  !  ye  clouds  of  glory, 

That  your  crimson  throw 
On  the  old  rocks  hoary, 

While  the  stream  below 
Sleeps  in  an  unbroken  shade: 
Can  too  much  of  ye  be  made  ? 

Can  I  love  to  1'tiger 

In  this  quiet  nook, 
Tracing  .Nature's  linger 

Heading  .Nature's  hook. 

Til!  such  liiurrinir-  !>,•  wrong 

Ivfuliug,  tracing  there  too  long? 

If  *o,  't .is  no  pity  ; 
For  too  soon,  alas  ! 


To  the  imprisoning  city 

From  these  haunts  I  pass, 
And  this  quiet  nook  will  be 
Seen  alone  in  memory. 

Rocks,  and  woods,  and  water, 

Now  I  am  with  ye, 
And  a  grateful  daughter 

Ever  will  I  be — 
Loving  ye,  e'en  when  ye  are 
From  my  loving  heart  afar. 


THE  SUN. 

WHEN  the  bounteous  summer-time 
Threw  the  riches  of  its  prime, 
Corn  arid  grass,  and  fruit  and  flowers 
Upon  meadows,  fields,  and  bowers; 
When  the  teeming  earth  below 
Seemed  to  quiver  in  the  glow 
Of  the  sky,  intensely  bright 
Writh  luxuriant,  melting  light  - 
Then  we  ever  tried  to  shun 
The  advances  of  the  sun  : 
Flying  from  his  burning  glance, 
If  he  looked  at  us  by  chance ; 
Shutting  out  his  beams,  if  they 
Ever  boldly  dared  to  stray 
To  our  dark  and  fragrant  room. 
Rendered  cool  by  quiet  gloom. 
Now  the  summer  time  is  gone, 
And  the  winds  begin  to  mourn ; 
Now  the  yellow  leaves  fall  down, 
And  the  grass  is  turning  brown, 
And  the  flowers  are  dying  fast ; 
Now  the  chill,  destroying  blast, 
Seems  to  whisper  in  the  vine 
A  sad  warning  of  decline — 
We  invoke  the  sun's  warm  ray, 
And  we  bless  it  all  the  day ; 
Looking  up,  as  to  a  friend, 
When  its  beams  on  us  descend  ; 
And  we  watch  it  down  the  west, 
As  it  early  sinks  to  rest: 
Then,  with  sorrow  at  our  hearts, 
Sigh,  "  How  soon  the  sun  departs !" 
So,  in  brightest  summer  tide 
Of  prosperity  and  pride, 
When  our  friends  are  kind  and  warm, 
And  we  dream  not  of  the  storm — 
Then  we  hide  in  our  recess 
From  the  Sun  of  Righteousness, 
Closing  up  our  soul  and  sight 
To  his  strong  and  piercing  light. 
But  when  the  autumn  blast 
Of  desertion  sweepeth  past, 
Then  we  cry — by  grief  made  bold — 
"  We  are  deso'ate  and  co'd  ! 
Let  thy  beams  descend,  and  heal 
The  sou'-smartin  r  wounds  we  feel; 
Shine  upon  us,  Christ  our  Sun — 
Without  taee  we  are  undone  !r' 


ALICE   G.  HAYEK 


(Born  1828— Died  1863). 


Miss  EMILY  BRADLEY,  a  native  of  the  city 
of  Hudson,  in  New  York,  was  married  in  1846 
to  the  late  Joseph  C.  Neal,  of  Philadelphia, 
an  author  and  a  man  who  will  be  regretted 
while  any  of  his  acquaintances  are  living. 
She  was  educated  at  a  boarding-school  in 
New  Hampshire,  and  was  known  as  a  wri 
ter  by  many  spirited  compositions,  chiefly  it 
prose,  published  under  the  signature  of  "  Al 


ice  G.  Lee."  After  the  death  of  Mr.  Neal, 
in  the  summer  of  1847,  Mrs.  Neal  contin 
ued,  in  Philadelphia,  with  much  tact  and 
ability,  the  popular  journal  of  which  he  was 
the  editor,  called  Neal's  Saturday  Evening 
Gazette.  She  afterwards  married  Mr.  Sam 
uel  L.  Haven,  of  New  York,  and  wrote  a 
number  of  children's  books  under  the  nom 
de plume  of  "  Cousin  Alice," 


THE  BRIDE'S  CONFESSION. 

A  SUDDEN-  thrill  passed  through  my  heart, 

Wild  and  intense — yet  not  of  pain — • 
I  strove  to  quell  quick-bounding  throbs, 

And  scanned  the  sentence  o'er  again. 
It  might  have  been  full  idly  penned 

By  one  whose  thoughts  from  love  were  free 
And  yet,  as  if  entranced.  I  read — 

"  Thou  art  most  beautiful  to  me." 

Thou  didst  not  whisper  I  was  loved; 

There  were  no  gleams  of  tenderness, 
Save  those  my  trembling  heart  would  hope 

That  careless  sentence  might  express. 
But  while  the  blinding  tears  fell  fast, 

Until  the  words  I  scarce  could  see, 
There  shone,  as  through  a  wreathing  mist— 

"  Thou  art  most  beautiful  to  me." 

To  thee  1 — I  cared  not  for  all  eyes, 

So  I  was  beautiful  in  thine  ! 
A  timid  star,  my  faint,  sad  beams 

Upon  thy  path  alone  should  shine. 
Oh,  what  was  praise,  save  from  thy  lips  1 

And  love  should  all  unheeded  be, 
So  T  cou'd  hear  thy  bless -M!  voice 

Say,  "  Thou  art  beautiful  to  me." 

And  I  have  heard  those  very  words — 

Blushing  beneath  thine  earnest  gaze—  • 
Though  thou  perchance  hadst  qtuite  forgot 

They  had  been  said  in  bygone  days: 
While  clasped  hand  and  circling  arm 

Then  drew  me  nearer  still  to  thee, 
Thy  low  voice  breathed  upon  mine  ear-  - 

"  Thou,  love,  art  beautiful  to  me." 

And,  dearest,  though  thine  eyes  alone 

May  see  in  me  a  single  grace, 
I  care  not,  so  thou  e'er  canst  find 

A  hidden  sweetness  in  my  face. 
And  if,  as  years  and  cares  steal  on, 

Even  that  lingering  light  must  flee, 
What  matter,  if  from  thee  I  hear — 

"  Thou  art  still  beautiful  to  me  !" 


MIDNIGHT  AND  DAYBREAK. 

I  HAD  been  tossing  through  the  restless  night, 
Sleep  banished  from  my  pillow,  and  my  brain 
Weary  with  sense  of  dull  and  stifling  pain, 

Yearning  and  praying  for  the  blessed  light. 

My  lips  moaned  thy  dear  name,  beloved  one! 
Yet  I  have  seen  thee  lying  stiff  and  cold, 
Thy  form  bound  only  by  the  shroud's  pure  fold, 

For  life  with  all  its  suffering  was  done. 

Then  agony  of  loneliness  o'ercame 
My  widowed  heart ;  night  would  fit  emblem  seem 
For  the  evanishing  of  that  bright  dream  : 

The  heavens  were  dark,  my  life  henceforth  the  same: 
No  hope — its  pulse  within  my  breast  was  dead. 

Once  more  I  sought  the  casement.     JLo  !  a  ray, 
Faint  and  uncertain,  struggled  through  the  gloom, 
And  shed  a  misty  twilight  on  the  room ; 

Long  watched-for  herald  of  the  coming  day ! 

It  brought  a  thrill  of  gladness  to  my  breast. 
With  clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes  I  prayed, 
Thanking  my  God  for  light,  though  long  delayed  ; 

And  gentle  calm  stole  o'er  my  wild  unrest. 

"  Oh  soul !"  I  said,  "  thy  boding  murmurs  cease  ; 
Though  sorrow  bind  thee  as  a  funeral  pall, 
Thy  Father's  hand  is  guiding  thee  through  all ; 

His  love  will  bring  a  true  and  perfect  peace. 
Look  upward  once  again  :  though  drear  the  night, 
Earth  may  be  darkness,  Heav'n  will  give  thee  light." 


THE  CHURCH. 

CLAD  in  a  robe  of  pure  and  spotless  white, 
The  youthful  bride  with  timid  step  comes  forth 
To  greet  the  hand  to  which  she  plights  her  troth, 

Her  soft  eyes  radiant  with  a  strange  delight. 

The  snowy  veil  which  circles  her  around 
Shades  the  sweet  face  from  every  gazer's  eye, 
And  thus  enwrapped,  she  passes  calmly  by — 

Nor  casts  a  look  but  on  the  unconscious  ground 

So  should  the  Church,  the  bride  elect  of  Heaven- 
Remembering  Whom  she  goeth  forth  fo  meet 
349 


350 


ALICE    G.   HAVEN. 


And  with  a  truth  that  can  not  brook  deceit 
Holding  the  faith  which  unto  her  is  given — 
Pass  through  this  world.which  claims  her  for  awhile, 
\or  cast  about  her  longing  look,  nor  smile. 


BLIND! 


;i  moment  she  was  blind  for  life." 

BLIND,  said  you"?     Blind  for  life! 
'Tis  but  a  jest — no,  no,  it  can  not  be 
That  I  no  more  the  b  ess.'d  light  may  see  ! 

Ob,  what  a  fearful  strife 
Of  horrid  thought  is  raging  in  my  mind  ! 
I  did  not  hear  aright — "  For  ever  blind  !" 

Mother,  you  would  not  speak 
Auii'ht  but  the  truth  to  me,  your  stricken  child: 
Tell  me  I  do  but  dream ;  my  brain  is  wild, 

And  yet  my  heart  is  weak. 
Oh,  mother !  fold  me  in  a  close  embrace — 
Bend  down  to  me  that  dear,  that  gentle  face. 

I  can  not  hear  your  voice  ! 
Speak  louder,  mother.     Speak  to  me,  and  say 
Tins  frightful  dream  will  quickly  pass  away. 

Have  I  no  hope,  no  choice  1 

0  Heaven !  with  light  has  sound,  too,  from  me  fled  1 
Call,  shout  aloud,  as  if  to  wake  the  dead ! 

Thank  God  !  I  hear  you  now  : 

1  hear  the  beating  of  your  troubled  heart ; 
With  every  wo  of  mine  it  has  a  part. 

Upon  my  upturned  brow 

The  hot  tears  fall  from  those  dear  eyes  for  me : 
Once  more,  oh  is  it  true  I  may  not  see  7 

This  silence  chills  my  blood. 
Had  you  one  word  of  comfort,  all  my  fears 
Were  quickly  banished  :  faster  still  the  tears, 

A  bitter,  burning  flood, 

Fall  on  my  face,  and  now  one  trembling  word 
Confirms  the  dreadful  truth  my  cars  have  heard  ! 

Why  weep  you  1  — I  am  calm  : 
My  wan  .ip  quivers  not — my  heart  is  still. 
My  swollen  temples — see,  they  do  not  thrill ! 

That  word  was  as  a  charm ; 
Tell  me  the  worst:  all,  all  I  now  can  bear; 
I  have  a  fearful  strength — that  of  despair. 

What  is  it  to  be  blind  1 — 
To  be  shut  out  for  ever  from  the  skies — 
To  see  no  more  the  "  light  of  loving  eyes" — 

And,  as  years  pass,  to  find 
My  lot  unvaried  by  one  passing  gleam 
Of  the  bright  woodland  or  the  flashing  stream  1 

To  feel  the  breath  of  Spring, 
Yet  not  to  view  one  of  the  tiny  flowers 
That  come  from  out  the  earth  with  her  soft  showers ; 

To  hear  the  bright  birds  sing, 
And  feel,  while  listening  to  their  joyous  .train, 
My  heart  can  ne'er  know  happiness  aga'.n ! 

Then  in  the  solemn  night 
To  lie  alone,  while  all  anear  me  sleep, 
A.ml  laney  fearful  forms  about  me  creei; : 

Starting  in  wild  ajfri-ht. 


To  know,  if  true,  T  could  not  have  the  power 
I   To  ward  off  danger  in  that  lonely  hour. 

And  as  my  breath  came  thick 
To  feel  the  hidoous  darkness  round  me  press, 
Adding  new  terror  to  my  loneliness; 

While  every  pulse  leaped  quick 
To  clutch  and  grasp  at  the  black,  stifling  air — 
Then  sink  in  stupor  from  my  wild  despair. 

It  comes  upon  me  now  ! 

I  can  not  breathe  ;  my  heart  grows  quick  and  chill ; 
Oh,  mother,  are  your  arms  about  me  still — 

Still  o'er  me  do  you  bow? 
And  yet  I  care  not :  better  all  alone — 
No  one  to  heed  my  weakness  should  I  moan. 

Again  !  I  will  not  live. 
Death  is  no  worse  than  this  eternal  night — 
Those  resting  in  the  grave  heed  not  the  light ! 

Small  comfort  can  ye  give. 
Yes,  Death  is  welcome  as  my  only  friend ; 
In  the  calm  grave  my  sorrows  will  have  end. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  hope  ! 
Have  you  not  told  me  it  is  all  in  vain — 
That  while  I  live  I  may  not  see  again  7 

That  earth,  and  the  broad  scope 
Of  the  blue  heaven — that  all  things  glad  and  free 
Henceforth  are  hidden — tell  of  hope  to  me  ] 

It  is  not  hard  to  lie 

Calmly  and  silently  in  that  long  sleep ; 
No  fear  can  wake  me  from  that  slumber  deep. 

So,  mother,  let  me  die  : 
I  shall  be  happier  in  the  gentle  rest 
Than  living  with  this  grief  to  fill  my  breast. 


"  God  tempers  tlie  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb." — Sterne. 

THANK.  God  that  yet  I  live  ! 
In  tender  mercy,  heeding  not  the  prayer 
I  boldly  uttered  in  my  first  despair, 

He  would  not  rashly  give 
The  punishment  an  erring  spirit  braved. 
From  sudden  death  in  kindness  I  was  saved. 

It  was  a  fearful  thought 

That  this  fair  earth  had  not  one  p'easure  left! 
I  was  at  once  of  sight  and  hope  bereft. 

My  soul  was  not  yet  taught 
To  bow  submissive  to  the  sudden  stroke ; 
Its  crushing  weight  my  heart  had  well-nigh  broke. 

W'ords  are  not  that  can  tell 
The  horrid  thought  that  burned  upon  my  brain, 
That  came  and  went  with  madness  still  the  same — 

A  black  and  icy  spell 

Thatfroze  my  life-blood. stopp'd  my  flutteringbreath, 
Was  laid  upon  me — even  "  life  in  death." 

Long,  weary  months  crept  by, 
And  I  refused  all  comfort;  turned  aside, 
Wishing  that  in  my  weakness  I  had  died. 

I  uttered  no  reply, 

But  without  ceasing  wept  and  moaned,  and  prayed 
The  hand  of  Death  no  longer  might  be  stayed. 

I  shunned  the  gaze  of  all: 
I  knew  that  pity  dwelt  in  every  look ; 
Pity  e'en  then  my  proud  heart  could  not  brook ; 


ALICE    G.   HAVEN. 


351 


Though  darkness  as  a  pall 
Circled  me  round,  each  mournful  eye  1  felt 
That  for  a  moment  on  my  features  dwelt. 

You,  dearest  mother,  know 
I  shrank  in  sullenness  from  your  caress; 
Even  your  kisses  added  to  distress, 

For  burning  tears  would  flow 
As  you  bent  o'er  me,  whispering,  "  Be  calm, 
He  who  hath  wounded  holds  for  thee  a  balm." 

He  did  not  seern  a  friend  : 
I  deemed  in  wrath  the  sudden  blow  was  sent 
From  a  strong  arm  that  never  might  relent; 

That  pain  alone  would  end 
With  life — for,  mother,  then  it  seem  to  me 
That  long  arid  dreamless  would  death's  slumber  be. 

That  blessed  illness  came  : 

My  weakened  pulse  now  bounded  wild  and  strong. 
While  soon  a  raging  fever  burned  along 

My  worn,  exhausted  frame ; 
And  for  the  time  all  knowledge  passed  away — 
It  mattered  not  that  hidden  was  the  day. 

The  odor  of  sweet  flowers 

Came  stealing  through  the  casement  when  I  wok;, 
When  the  wild  fever-spell  at  last  was  broke ; 

And  yet  for  many  hours 
I  laid  in  dreamy  stillness,  till  your  tone 
Called  back  the  life  that  seemed  for  ever  flown, 

You,  mother,  knelt  in  prayer ; 
While  one  dear  hand  was  resting  on  my  heac1, 
With  sobbing  voice,  how  fervently  you  plead 

For  a  strong  heart,  to  bear 

The  parting  which  you  feared — "  Or,  if  she  live, 
Comfort,  O  Father,  to  the  stricken  give ! 

"  Take  from  her  wandering  mind 
The  heavy  load  which  it  so  long  hath  borne, 
Which  even  unto  death  her  frame  hath  worn  : 

Let  her  in  mercy  find, 

That  though  the  earth  she  may  no  longer  see, 
Her  spirit  still  can  look  to  Heaven  and  thee." 

A  low  sob  from  me  stole  : 
A  moment  more,  your  arms  about  me  wound, 
My  head  upon  your  breast  a  pillow  found ; 

And  through  my  weary  soul 
A  holy  calm  came  stealing  from  on  high  : 
Your  prayer  was  answered — I  was  not  to  die. 

Then  when  the  bell's  faint  chime 
Came  floating  gently  on  the  burdened  air, 
My  heart  went  up  to  God  in  fervent  prayer. 

And,  mother,  from  that  time 
My  wild  thoughts  left  rne,  hope  returned  once  more : 
I  felt  that  happiness  was  yet  in  store. 

Daily  new  strength  was  given  : 
For  the  first  time  since  darkness  on  me  fell, 
I  passed  with  more  of  joy  than  words  can  tell 

Under  the  free,  blue  heaven ; 


I  bathed  my  brow  in  the  cool,  gushing  spring : ' 
How  much  of  life  those  bright  drop  seemed  to  bring  ! 

I  crushed  the  dewy  leaves 
Of  the  pale  violets,  and  drank  their  breath — 
Though  I  had  heard  that  at  each  floweret's  deatft 

A  sister  blossom  grieves. 
I  did  not  care  to  see  their  glorious  hues, 
Fearing  the  richer  perfume  I  might  lose. 

Then  in  the  dim  old  wood 
I  laid  me  down  beneath  i  bending  tree, 
And  dreamed,  dear  mother,  waking  dreams  of  Ihe'j 

I  thought  how  just  and  good 
The  Power  that  had  so  gently  sealed  mine  eyes, 
Yet  bade  new  pleasures  and  new  hopes  arise. 

For  now  in  truth  I  find 
My  Father  all  his  promises  hath  kept  : 
He  comforts  those  who  here  in  sadness  wept. 

"  Eyes  to  the  blind" 

Thou  art,  O  God !     Earth  I  no  longer  see, 
Yet  trustfully  my  spirit  looks  to  thee. 


A  MEMORY. 

SLOWLY  fades  the  misty  twilight 

O'er  the  thronged  and  noisy  town ; 
Storms  are  gathered  in  the  distance, 

And  the  clouds  above  it  frown. 
Yet  before  me  leaves  sway  lightly 

In  the  hushed  and  drowsy  air, 
And  the  trees  new-cloth ed  in  verdure 

Have  no  summer  of  despair. 

I  have  gazed  into  the  darkness, 

Seeking  in  the  busy  crowd 
For  a  form  once  passing  onward 

With  a  step  as  firm  and  proud ; 
For  a  face  upturned  in  gladness 

To  the  window  where  I  leaned, 
Smiling  with  an  eager  welcome, 

Though  a  step  but  intervened. 

Even  now  my  cheek  is  flushing 

With  the  rapture  of  that  gaze, 
And  my  heart  as  then  beats  wildly. 

Oh,  the  memory  of  those  days 
As  a  dear,  dear  dream  it  cometh, 

Swiftly  as  a  dream  it  flies ! 
No  one  springeth  now  unto  me, 

Smiling  wim  such  earnest  eyes — 

No  one  hastens  home  at  twilight, 

Watching  for  my  hand  to  wave : 
For  the  form  I  seek  so  vainly 

Sleepeth  in  the  silent  grave ; 
And  the  eyes  have  smiled  in  dying 

Blessing  rne  with  latest,  life — 
Oh,  my  friend  !  above  the  discord 

Of  the  last,  wild,  earthlv  strife. 


CAROLINE    H.    CHANDLER. 


THE  maiden  name  of  this  fine  writer  was 
HIESKILL.  She  was  married  several  years 
ago  to  Mr.  M.  T.  W.  Chandler,  a  son  of  the 
Hon.  Joseph  R.  Chandler,  of  Philadelphia, 


which  is  her  native  city.  Her  poems  have 
appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  United 
States  Gazette,  and  in  the  Philadelphia  mag 
azines. 


TO  MY  BROTHER. 

"  Tlie  love  where  Death  hath  =et  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  dull,  nor  rival  steal. 

Nor  falsehood  disavow."— Byron. 

WELCOME,  0  brother,  to  our  household  meeting, 

Welcome  again  from  o'er  the  distant  sea  ; 
Long  have  we  looked  for  thy  familiar  greeting. 

Long  have  we  yearned  to  gaze  once  more  on  thee. 
Daily  and  nightly  for  thy  safe  returning 

Have  prayers  ascended  from  our  watchful  hearts, 
When,  as  before  a  shrine,  for  ever  burning, 

The  lamp  of  love  its  holy  light  imparts. 

How  have  we  missed  thee  in  our  joy  and  sorrow  ! 

How  have  we  daily  marked  thy  vacant  place  ! 
How  have  we  fondly  sighed  for  the  fair  morrow, 

That  should  restore  to  us  thine  own  dear  face  ! 
The  chain  of  love  hath  lost  a  link  without  thee — 

And  all  too  slowly  runs  the  golden  sand 
Till  that  sweet  time  when,  circled  round  about  thee, 

Safe  in  our  midst,  we  may  behold  thee  stand. 

Yet  with  our  welcome  mingle  strains  of  sadness 

Unheard  before  amidst  our  household  mirth  ; 
Hushed  are  the  wonted  tones  of  joy  and  gladness, 

For  ever  quenched  the  light  upon  our  hearth. 
The  star  is  hidden  from  our  earnest  gazing, 

Silent  the  music  in  the  troubled  air, 
Yet  do  we  surely  know,  to  heaven  upraising 

Our  eyes  all  dim  with  tears,  that  she  is  there. 

The  Father  hath  received  her  into  glory — 

The  lamb  hath  refuge  found  within  the  fold; 
And  though  her  life  be  as  an  untold  story, 

Her  death  is  writ  in  characters  of  gold. 
Oh!   litt'e  darling,  with  the  tears  fast  raining, 

And  the  sick  heart  a  mother  only  knows — 
I  think  of  thy  most  patient  uncomplaining, 

Submissive  ever,  till  thy  sweet  life's  close; 

Of  all  the  wealth  of  thy  young  heart's  devotion — 

Of  the  last  mortal  sickness,  faint  unrest — 
And  oh,  dread  thought,  the  little  hand's  last  motion, 

Which  even  in  death  would  c'asp  me  to  thy  breast ! 
Each  censure  passed  in  chastening  correction 

Upon  thy  childish  faults,  so  few  and  light — 
Each  look,  each  hasty  word,  with  vain  reflection, 

Comes  pressing  hard  upon  my  heart  to-night. 

Once  more,  my  solitary  vigil  keeping, 
I  watch  beside  thee  in  that  silent  room ; 


Counting  thy  pulse,  as  the  hot  blood  runs  leaping 
Through  those  young  veins,  soon  quiet  in  the  tomb. 

Once  more  I  mark  the  dimpled  cheek's  deep  flushing, 
Seen  by  the  dim  night-lamp ;  once  more  thy  cry 

Of  mortal  pain  sends  with  a  mighty  rushing 
The  awful  thought  that  thou  must  surely  die ! 

These  are  most  dread  and  fearful  recollections, 

Ne'er  to  be  blotted  out  till  life  hath  fled ; 
Yet  are  there  holy,  comforting  reflections, 

Which  bloom  like  flowers  around  the  early  dead. 
Oh  !  to  believe,  with  meekness  uncomplaining, 

In  the  dear  mercy  of  God's  loving  sway — 
That  our  sore  loss  is  her  eternal  gaining — 

That  darkness  leadeth  but  to  perfect  day. 

Ye  find  us  not  the  same  as  when  we  parted, 

Oh,  brother  mine  !  but  weary  and  way-worn — 
Ye  find  us  not  the  same  as  when  we  started 

On  the  dark  road  of  life,  in  youth's  fair  morn. 
Then,  with  a  holy  and  a  meek  confiding, 

And  a  fond  trust,  too  lovely  to  endure, 
We  dreamed  not  of  the  evil  here  abiding, 

For  to  the  heart  of  youth  all  things  are  pure. 

The  world  no  longer  wears  the  same  gay  seeming 

That  shone  around  it  once  in  life's  first  years, 
And  we  have  learned  to  mock  its  idle  dreamings, 

And  bathe  its  brightest  hopes  with  bitter  tears. 
Oh !  dreary  is  that  first  most  sad  awaking 

From  the  sweet  confidence  of  early  truth, 
To  find  Hope's  rosy  glass,  in  fragments  breaking, 

Reflects  no  more  the  visions  of  our  youth  ! 

Ah  !  many  hearts  have  changed  since  we  two  parted, 

And  many  grown  apart,  as  time  hath  sped — 
Till  we  have  almost  deemed  that  the  true-hearted 

Abided  only  with  the  faithful  dead. 
And  some  we  trusted  with  a  fond  believing, 

Have  turned  and  stung  us  to  the  bosom's  core ; 
And  life  hath  seemed  but  as  a  vain  deceiving, 

From  which  we  turn  aside,  heartsick  and  sore. 

Oh,  brother  !   this  is  but  a  mournful  greeting 

With  which  to  hail  the  wanderer's  return  ; 
My  lay,  responsive  to  my  heart's  sad  beating, 

Tells  but  of  death — the  ashes  and  the  uin. 
Yet  must  we  wait,  God's  own  good  time  abiding. 

And  faithful  labor  at  the  task  below — 
Till  his  just  hand,  the  good  and  ill  dividing, 

Shall  change  to  future  jov  our  present  wo. 
352' 


ELIZA    L.    SPROAT. 


Miss  SPROAT  is  a  native  arid  a  resident  of 
Philadelphia.  She  is  the  author  of  many 
fanciful  and  brilliant  poems,  of  which  a  few 


have  recently  been  printed  in  literary  miscel 
lanies.  She  has  wit,  delicacy,  and  a  pleas 
ing  vein  of  sentiment. 


THE  PRISONER'S  CHILD. 

THE  dull,  chill  prison  building, 

Oh,  what  a  gloomy  sight ! 
It  wears  in  boldest  morning 

The  coward  scowl  of  Night. 
The  warm,  fresh  Light  approaches, 

And  shuddering  turns  away  : 
Within  its  shadow  looming  foul 

No  joysome  thing  will  stay. 
Yet  there's  a  light  within  my  cell, 

A  lovely  light  its  walls  enclose ; 
My  happy  child — my  daughter  pure — 

My  wild,  wild  rose. 
The  prison  sounds  are  dreary 

To  one  who  hears  them  long ; 
The  murderer  talking  to  himself— 

The  drunkard's  crazy  song. 
My  prison-door  grates  harshly, 

It  bodes  the  jailer's  scowl ; 
The  jailer's  dog  sleeps  all  the  day, 

To  wake  at  night  and  howl. 
Yet  there  is  music  in  my  cell, 

And  Joy's  own  voice  its  walls  enclose  ; 
My  heaven-bird — my  gladsome  girl — 

My  wild,  wild  rose. 
Her  mellow,  golden  accents 

O'erflow  the  air  around, 
As  if  the  joyous  sunshine 

Resolved  itself  to  sound. 
She  carols  clear  at  morning, 

And  prattles  sweet  at  noon  ; 
She  sings  to  rest  the  weary  sun, 

And  ringeth  up  the  moon ; 
And  when  in  sleep  she  visits  home, 

(My  daughter  knows  the  angels  well,) 
She  Ml  fearless  rouse  the  awful  night, 

Her  happy  dreams  to  tell. 
Oh,  some  have  many  treasures, 

But  other  I  have  none  ; 
The  dear  Creator  gave  me 

My  blessings  all  in  one. 
The  wealth  of  many  jewels 

Is  garnered  in  her  eyes  ; 
The  worth  of  many  loving  hearts 

Within  her  bosom  lies ; 
She's  more  to  me  than  daily  bread, 

And  more  to  me  than  night's  repose  : 
My  staff,  my  flower,  my  praise,  my  prayer — 

My  wild,  wild  rose. 
2 


A  FEW  STRAY  SUNBEAMS. 

LITTLE  dainty  Sunbeams! 

Listen  when  you  please, 
You  Ml  not  hear  their  tiny  feet 

Dancing  in  the  trees : 
All  so  light  and  delicate 

Is  their  golden  tread, 
Not  a  single  flower-leaf 

Such  a  step  may  dread. 

Merry,  laughing  Sunbeams, 

Playing  here  and  there, 
Passing  through  the  rose-leaves, 

Flashing  everywhere ; 
Through  the  cottage  window, 

In  the  cottage  door, 
Past  the  green,  entangled  vines, 

On  the  cottage  floor. 

Lovely  little  Sunbeams, 

Laughing  as  they  played 
Through  the  flying  ringlets 

Of  the  cottage  maid  ; 
Staying  but  to  flush  her  cheek, 

Darting  in  their  glee 
Down  the  darkened  forest-path, 

O'er  the  open  lea, 
Through  the  castle  window 

Where,  in  curtained  gloom, 
Sat  its  lovely  mistress 

In  her  splendid  bloom  ! 

Oh  ye  saucy  Sunbeams  ! 

Could  ye  dare  to  spy 
Time's  annoying  footmarks 

Near  a  lady's  eye  1 
Dare  ye  flash  around  her, 

Every  line  to  see, 
Lighting  each  stray  wrinkle  up 

In  your  cruel  glee  1 

See  !  the  witching  Sunbeams 

With  the  wand  they  hold, 
Turn  the  earth  to  emerald, 

And  the  skies  to  gold ; 
All  the  streams  are  silver 

'Neath  their  magic  rare  , 
All  the  black  .ears  Night  hath  shed, 

Gems  for  kings  to  wear. 

Beautiful  is  moonlight, 
Like  to  Nature's  mind, 
353 


35 1 


II  \IIR1ET    LISZT. 


Purely  white  and  bril  iant, 

Coldly,  cfhnly  kind  : 
Beautiful  thy  burning  stars, 

Like  to  Nature's  soul, 
Rapturous  that  ever  gaze, 

Heavenward  as  they  roll. 
But  oh  !  the  human  sunlight, 

Flooding  earth  in  glee, 
Nature's  living,  laughing,  loving, 

Gladsome  heart  for  me  ! 


QUO  N  ARE. 

WHEHKTO  shall  I  liken  thee, 

Holy  Guonare  ? 
TV  the  waves  that  leap  so  free, 

Or  the  flowers  that  smile  so  fair? — 
Fearless  as  the  bounding  wave, 

Meek  as  any  little  flower, 
God  to  woman  never  gave 

More  of  love  with  more  of  power. 

Thou  art  not  a  violet, 

Feeble,  shrinking,  sweet,  and  frail ; 
Wrongful  scorn  could  never  yet 

Cause  thy  heart  to  quail. 
Thou  art  not  a  sunbright  rose, 

Tossing  bold  her  lovely  form 
With  each  breeze  that  comes  and  goes — 

Laughing,  gaudy,  flushed,  and  warm. 

Thou  art  like  a  lily,  standing 

Near  the  rose's  gaudy  form  : 
Like  a  pure,  cool  lily,  bending 

Near  the  rose  all  flushed  and  warm. 
Thou  art  like  a  great,  bright  star, 

Shining  clearly,  calmly  forth, 
Through  some  chasm  in  a  cloud 

Darkly  shrouding  all  the  earth. 

Thou  art  like  a  rainbow  fair, 

Gleaning  brightness  still  from  sorrow, 


Turning  tears  to  hope-gems  rare, 
Showing  still  a  glad  to-rnorrow. 

Thou  hast  looked  upon  the  stars 
Till  thine  eyes  are  darkly  bright, 

Beaming  forth  in  broadest  day 
Strange  and  holy  light. 

Thou  art  all  a  mystery, 

Wondrous  Guonare  ! 
I  cou'd  almost  fancy  thee 

(Looking  on  thine  eys  so  rare) 
Some  mistaken  spirit,  landing 

On  this  shore  of  care  and  cark — 
One  of  God's  white  angels,  standing 

In  a  world  of  dark.    * 

Maiden,  dost  thou  never  blush  ? 

Woman,  dost  thou  never  weep  ] 
Hold  sad  talks  with  Night  and  Care, 

While  God's  happy  sleep? 
Dost  thou  never  teach  thy  brow 

A  wreath  of  glowing  smiles  to  wear. 
To  hide  the  crown  of  thorns  below, 

Calm-eyed  Guonare  1 

Passion  hath  no  charm 

To  lure  thy  heavenward  eye  ; 
Care  and  Sin  but  look  on  thee, 

And  pass  in  wonder  by. 
Thou  hast  surely  brought  to  earth 

Charms  to  keep  thee  passion-free — • 
Memories  of  thy  heaven-birth 

And  thine  immortality. 

Or,  mayhap  the  angels  fair, 

Sporting  in  their  raptured  glee, 
When  thy  soul  to  earth  was  lent, 

Then  forgot  to  proffer  thee 
Drink  from  that  dim,  awful  river, 

Alway  since  to  mortals  given, 
Where  the  earth-doomed  soul  for  ever 

Loses  sight  of  heaven. 


HARRIET    LTSZT. 

(Born  1819). 


Miss  HARRIET  WINSLOW,  a  native  of  Port 
land,  in  Maine,  was  married  in  1848  to  Mr. 
Charles  Liszt,  of  Pennsylvania,  and  they  have 


since  resided  in  Boston.  Mrs.  Liszt  is  the  au 
thor  of  a  few  beautiful  poems,  thegrea  ter  n  um 
ber  of  which  have  been  printed  in  the  annuals. 


WHY  THIS  LONGING? 

WHY  this  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing 

For  the  far  off,  unattained,  and  dim ; 
While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 

OflTers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 
Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 

All  thy  restless  yearning  it  would  still  : 
Leaf,  and  flower,  and  laden  bee,  are  preaching 

Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 
Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 

Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw ; 
If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 


To  some  little  world  through  weal  or  wo : 
If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten — 

No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own  ; 
If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 

By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 
Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd's  applauses; 

Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown ; 
Not  by  martyrdom,  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown 
Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 

Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give ; 
Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 


JULIET    H.    L.    CAMPBELL. 


Miss  JULIET  H.  LEWIS,  now  Mrs.  CAMP 
BELL,  is  a  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Ellis  Lewis, 
president  of  me  second  judicial  district  of 
Pennsylvania.  At  an  early  age  she  distin 
guished  herself  as  a  writer  of  poetry  ;  and 
since  her  marriage,  to  Mr.  James  H.  Camp 
bell,  a  member  of  the  bar  of  Pottsville,  on 
the  seventh  of  June,  1843,  she  has  been  a 
frequent  contributor,  of  both  prose  and  verse, 
to  the  magazines  and  annuals.  During  many 
years  of  her  maiden  life  she  was  an  only 
child,  and,  without  companions  of  her  own 
age,  was  in  constant  association  with  her 
parents.  She  frequently  accompanied  her 
father  on  his  professional  and  judicial  jour 
neys  ;  and  I  remember  meeting  her  at  West 


Point,  in  her  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  year, 
while  Judge  Lewis  was  discharging  the 
duties  of  an  official  visiter  to  the  Military 
Academy  there.  She  had  then  a  reputation 
for  genius,  and  a  few  exhibitions  of  her  pre 
cocious  powers  had  caused  her  to  be  ranked 
with  the  Davidsons,  who  were  then  subjects 
of  much  conversation.  Judge  Lewis  is  a 
student  of 

"  The  old  and  antique  rhyme," 
and  a  poet  of  no  mean  powers ;  and  to  the 
peculiar  nature  of  her  filial  relations,  and  her 
consequent  intimacy  with  many  persons  of 
eminent  abilities  and  dignified  character,  she 
owes  the  early  development  of  her  capacities 
and  her  accurate  knowledge  of  the  world. 


DREAMS. 

MAXY,  oh  man  !  are  the  wild  dreams  beguiling 
Thy  spirit  of  its  restlessness,  and  ever 
TIiou  rushest  onward,  some  new  prize  pursuing, 
Like  the  mad  waves  of  a  relentless  river. 
First  love,  the  morning  sun  of  thy  existence, 
Enchants  thy  path  with  glories  and  with  bliss  : 
Oh  linger!  for  the  shadowy  hereafter 
Hath  naught  to  offer  that  can  equal  this. 

Linger,  and  revel  in  thy  first  young  dreaming, 
The  holiest  that  can  thrill  thy  yearning  heart — 
Husband  the  precious  moments,  the  brief  feeling 
Of  youthful  ecstasy  will  soon  depart. 
Seek  not  to  win  too  soon  that  which  thou  lovest, 
"When  winning  will  but  hreak  the  magic  spell : 
Love  on,  but  seek  not,  strive  not — the  attainment 
Will  cloy  thy  fickle  heart,  thy  dream  dispel. 
Vain  is  the  warning  !     Death  as  soon  will  listen 
To  the  beseechings  of  his  stricken  prey; 
Or  Time  will  tarry  when  the  cowering  nations 
Shrink  from  their  desolating  destiny  ! 
Thou  art  as  fierce  as  F;ite  in  thy  pursuing — 
Thou  art  impetuous  as  the  flight  of  Time; 
And  didst  thou  love  a  star,  thy  mad  presuming 
Would  seek  to  grasp  it,tiiough  thou  thus  shouldst 
break  th'  eternal  chime. 

And  now  Ambition,  like  a  radiant  angel, 
Attracts  thy  vision  and  enchains  thy  thought  : 
Ambition  is  thy  god,  and  thou  art  laying 
Thy  all  before  the  insatiate  Juggernaut; 
The  health,  the  strength,  which  crowned  thy  youth 
with  glory, 


The  friends  who  loved  thee  in  thy  early  day, 
The  clinging  love  which  once  thy  bosom  cherished — 
All  these  are  cast,  like  worthless  weeds,  away. 

Take  now  the  prize  for  which  thou'st  madly  bar 
tered, 

Thy  first,  best  treasures ;  and  in  lonely  grief 
Enjoy  Fame's  emptiness,  and,  broken  hearted, 
Feed  on  the  poison  of  thy  laurel  leaf; 
Then,  sated,  turn  in  bitter  disppointment 
From  the  applause  of  Flattery's  fawning  troop, 
And  curse,  within  thy  cheated  heart's  recesses, 
Ambition's  demon,  and  thyself  his  dupe  ! 

These  are  the  visions  of  thy  youth  and  manhood  : 
With  disappointment  wilt  thou  grow  more  sage  ] 
Alas,  more  grovelling  yet,  and  more  degrading, 
Is  avarice,  the  sordid  dream  of  age  ! 
When  all  the  joys  of  summer  have  departed, 
And  life  is  stripped  a'ike  of  birds  and  bloom, 
'Tis  sad  to  see  Age,  in  his  dotage,  treasure 
The  withered  leaves  beside  his  yawning  tomb  ! 

Yes,  many  are  thy  dreams,  while  gentle  woman 
Hath  but  one  vision,  and  it  is  of  thee  ! 
Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  (most  Christian  graces,) 
In  her  meek  bosom  dwell,  a  trinity 
Combined  in  unit;  and  an  earthly  godhead, 
Whose  name  is  Love,  demands  her  worshipping: 
And  she,  e'en  as  the  Hindoo  to  his  idol, 
The  blind  devotion  of  her  heart  doth  bring ; 
And  when  her  god  of  clay  hath  disappointed, 
Earth  can  enchant  no  more — she  looks  above, 
Laying  her  crushed  heart  on  her  Savior's  bosom  • 
Love  was  her  heaven,  now  Heaven  is  her  love. 


356 


JULIET   H.  L.   CAMPBELL. 


NIGHT-BLOOMING  FLOWERS. 

FAIR  buds  !  I've  wandered  day  by  day 

To  this  sequestered  spot, 
That  I  might  catch  your  earliest  smiles, 

And  yet  ye  open  not. 
The  morning  mists  are  scattered  now, 

No  cloud  is  in  the  sky  ; 
The  sun,  like  a  benignant  king, 

Smiles  from  his  throne  on  high, 
While  birds,  in  gushing  melody, 

Are  offering  homage  up ; 
And  sister  flowers,  beneath  his  gaze, 

Ope  wide  each  fragile  cup  : 
Why  shut  ye  then  your  incense  in, 

And  hide  your  loveliness, 
As  though  you  may  not  share  their  joy 

Beneath  the  sun's  caress  ] 

Now  wake  ye  !  'tis  the  sunset  hour, 

The  day  king  has  gone  down — 
Yet  still  upon  the  mountain's  top 

Is  seen  his  brilliant  crown  • 
Awake  ye  !  if  its  gleaming  gems, 

Its  bands  of  glittering  gold, 
Its  glorious,  lifelike  radiance, 

Departing,  ye'd  behold. 
The  river's  touched  with  glowing  light, 

And  rolls  a  crimson  flood, 
While  heaven's  blush  has  lent  its  hues 

Unto  the  leafy  wood  : 
Still  are  you  folded  to  your  dreams  1 

Bright  must  those  visions  be, 
If  they  surpass  the  gorgeousness 

Of  heaven's  pageantry  ] 

Good  night !  the  stars  are  gemming  heaven, 

And  seem  like  angels'  eyes, 
Resuming  now  their  silent  watch 

Within  the  far-off  skies  ; 
They  nightly  on  their  burning  thrones, 

Like  guardian  spirits  keep 
Familiar  vigil  o'er  the  world, 

Wrapt  in  its  solemn  sleep ; 
And  tenderly  they  gaze  on  us, 

Those  children  of  the  air, 
While  every  ray  they  send  to  you 

Some  message  seems  to  bear, 
That  stirs  you  to  the  inmost  core : 

You  thrill  beneath  their  beams, 
And  start  and  tremble  wildly,  like 

Ambition  in  his  dreams. 

Now,  lo !  ye  burst  your  emerald  bonds, 

And  ope  your  languid  eyes, 
And  spread  your  loveliness  before 

Those  dwellers  of  the  skies; 
While  incense  from  your  grateful  hearts 

Like  prayer  ascends  to  heaven, 
.\ml  kindly  dew  and  starry  light 

Are  answering  blessings  given. 
"Ask  and  ye  shall  receive,"  you  seem 

To  whisper  to  my  heart, 
AnM  move  me  in  vour  worshipping 

To  take  an  active  part. 
Sweet  teachers  !  'tis  an  hour  for  prayer, 

When  hushed  are  sounds  of  mirth, 


And  slumber  rests  his  balmy  wing 

Upon  the  weary  earth  ; 
When  all  the  ties  that  bind  the  soul 

To  worldliness  are  riven — 
Then  heartfelt  prayers,  like  loosened  birds, 

Will  wing  their  way  to  heaven. 

A  STORY  OF  SUNRISE. 

WHERK  the  old  cathedral  towers, 

With  its  dimly  lighted  dome, 
Underneath  its  morning  shadow 

Nestles  my  beloved  home ; 
When  the  summer  morn  is  breaking 

Glorious,  with  its  golden  beams, 
Through  my  open  latticed  window 

Matin  music  wildly  streams. 
Not  the  peal  of  deep-toned  organ 

Smites  the  air  with  ringing  sound — 
Not  the  voice  of  singing  maiden 

Sighing  softer  music  round  ; 
Long  ere  these  have  hailed  the  morning, 

Is  the  mystic  anthem  heard, 
Wildly,  fervently,  outpouring 

From  the  bosom  of  a  bird. 
Every  morn  he  takes  his  station 

On  the  cross  which  crowns  the  spire, 
And  with  heaven-born 'inspiration, 

Vents  in  voice  his  bosom's  fire ; 
Every  morn  when  light  and  shadow, 

Struggling,  blend  their  gold  and  gray, 
From  the  cross,  midway  to  heaven, 

Streams  his  holy  melody. 
Like  the  summons  from  the  turrets 

Of  an  eastern  mosque  it  seems: 
"  Come  to  prayer,  to  prayer,  ye  faithful !" 

Echoes  through  my  morning  dreams. 
Heedful  of  the  invitation 

Of  the  pious  messenger, 
Lo !  I  join  in  meek  devotion 

With  so  lone  a  worshipper. 
And  a  gushing,  glad  thanksgiving 

From  my  inmost  heart  doth  thrill, 
To  our  Ever  Friend  in  heaven, 

As  our  blent  glad  voices  trill. 
Then  the  boy  who  rests  beside  me 

Softly  opes  his  starry  eyes, 
Tosses  back  his  streaming  ringlets, 

Gazes  round  in  sweet  surprise. 
He,  though  sleeping,  felt  the  radiance 

Struggling  through  the  curtained  gloom 
Heard  the  wild,  harmonious  hymning 

Break  the  stillness  of  my  room  : 
These  deliciously  commingled 

With  the  rapture  of  his  dreams, 
And  the  heaven  of  which  I  've  told  him 

On  his  childish  vision  gleams. 
Guardian  seraphs,  viewless  spirits, 

Brooding  o'er  the  enchanted  air, 
Pause,  with  folded  wings,  to  listen 

To  the  lispings  of  his  prayer ; 
Up,  to  the  recording  angel, 

When  their  ward  on  earth  is  done, 
They  will  bear  the  guileless  accents 

Of  my  infant's  orison  ! 


ELISE    JUSTINE    BAYARD. 


Miss  BAYARD,  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
few  old  historical  families  of  New  York  who 
sail  preserve  fortune  and  position,  has,  by  a 
few  brilliant  lyrics  published  in  the  maga 
zines,  revived  attention  to  a  name  which 
figures  111  the  early  provincial  annals  of  her 
native  state,  and  which  in  later  times  was 
prominent  among  the  commercial  notabilities 
cf  the  ciiy  of  her  birth.  A  lady  of  leisure, 
fortune,  and  general  accomplishment,  is  not 
likdy  to  bestow  any  very  severe  study  upon 
the  art  of  poetry  ;  but  the  amateur  votary  in 
this  instance  has  shown  a  vigor  of  thought, 


emotion,  and  expression,  in  some  of  her  pro 
ductions,  which  gives  the  highest  promise  oi 
what  she  may  accomplish,  should  she  devote 
her  fine  intelligence  to  literature. 

The  following  poems  were  first  printed 
in  the  Literary  World,  and  Miss  Bayard  has 
published  a  few  more  in  the  Knickerbocker 
Magazine  and  in  other  miscellanies.  Among 
her  compositions  that  have  been  circulated 
in  manuscript  are  some,  of  a  more  ambitious 
character,  that  would  vindicate  higher  enco 
miums  than  will  here  be  adventured  upon 
her  abilities. 


A  FUNERAL  CHANT  FOR  THE 
OLD  YEAR. 

'Tis  the  death  night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year! 
And  it  calleth  from  its  shroud 
With  a  hollow  voice  and  loud, 

But  serene  : 

And  it  saith,  "  What  have  I  given, 
That  hath  brought  thee  nearer  Heaven  1 
Dost  thou  weep,  as  one  forsaken, 
For  the  treasures  I  have  taken  ] 
Standest  thou  beside  my  hearse 
With  a  blessing  or  a  curse  ? 
s  it  well  with  thee,  or  worse, 
That  I  have  been  1" 

Tis  the  death  night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
The  midnight  shades  that  rall — 
They  will  serve  it  for  a  pall, 

In  their  gloom  : 

And  the  misty  vapors  crowding 
Are  the  withered  corse  enshrouding ; 
And  the  black  clouds  looming  olf  in 
The  far  sky,  have  p'unied  the  coffin  . 
But  the  vaults  of  human  souls, 
Where  the  memory  unrolls 
All  her  tear-besprinkled  scrolls, 
Are  its  tomb  ! 

'Tis  the  death  night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year  ! 
The  moon  hath  gone  to  weep, 
With  a  mourning  still  and  deep, 

For  her  loss  : 

The  stars  dare  not  assemble 
Through  the  murky  night  to  tremble ; 
Tiie  naked  trees  are  groaning 
With  an  awful,  mystic  moaning; 
Wind's  sweep  upon  the  air, 
Which  a  solemn  message  bear, 


And  hosts,  whose  banners  wear 

A  crowned  cross  ! 

'Tis  the  death  night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
Who' make  the  funeral  train, 
When  the  queen  hath  ceased  to  reign  ! 

Who  are  here 

With  the  golden  crowns  that  follow, 
All  invested  with  a  halo  1 
With  a  splendor  transitory 
Shines  the  midnight  from  their  glory  ; 
And  the  paean  of  their  song 
Rolls  the  aisles  of  space  along — 
But  the  left  hearts  are  less  strong, 

For  they  were  dear  ! 

}Tis  the  death  night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year  ! 
With  a  dull  and  heavy  tread, 
Tramping  forward  with  the  dead, 

Who  come  last  ? 

Lingering  with  their  faces  groundward, 
Though  their  feet  are  marching  onward, 
They  are  shrieking — they  are  calling 
On  the  rocks  in  tones  appalling : 

But  Earth  waves  them  from  her  view, 
And  the  God-light  dazzles  through — 
And  they  shiver,  as  spars  do, 

Before  the  blast ! 

'T  is  the  death  night  of  the  solemn  Old  Year ! 
We  are  parted  from  our  place 
In  her  motherly  embrace, 

And  are  alone  ! 

For  the  infant  and  the  stranger, 
It  is  sorrowful  to  change  her  : 
She  hath  cheered  the  night  of  mourning 
With  a  promise  of  the  dawning  ; 
She  hath  shared  in  our  delight 
Wifh  a  gladness  true  and  bright : 
Oh  !   we  need  her  jov  to-night — 
But  she  is  jrone  ! 
357 


358 


ELISE    JUSTINE    BAYARD. 


ON    FIXDJXG    THE    KEY    OF   AN    OLD 
PIANO. 

Uvux  K,  unlock  the  shrines  of  memory, 
And  liid  her  many  keys  their  voices  send 

I"|»  in  the  silent  hour  unto  me. 
Speak  !   that  the  tones  of  other  years  may  lend 

Their  vanished  harmonies  and  lost  romance 

To  days  immersed  in  gloom  and  dissonance. 

Thou,  who  the  whi'e  unconscious  played  thy  part, 
And  called  fair  music  from  her  silent  cell 

To  echo  murmurs  from  the  gushing  heart, 
Come  !  wake  once  more  the  departed  spell : 

I  fain  would  hear  of  things  and  thoughts  again, 

Which  ming'ed  often  with  the  stealing  strain. 

Hark  !  it  comes  creeping  on  :  it  is  an  air  • 

Full  of  strange  wailing — mournfully  profound  ; 
Some  music-spirit  moaning  in  despair, 

Prisoned  in  that  sweet  harrier  of  sound  : 
And  yet,  methinks  "  might  I  a  captive  be, 
If  thus  environed  in  captivity  !" 
And  shadowy  forms  around  the  instrument 

Come  close  y  pressing,  whispering  low  words 
'I  hat  keep  time  with  the  music,  redolent 

Of  deep  vibrations  in  the  hidden  chords 
That  round  the  heart  their  hurried  measure  keep, 
And  sway  its  pulses  with  resistless  sweep. 

Voice  of  the  voiceless  !  Graves  give  up  their  dead, 

And  at  thy  word  departed  echoes  ring, 
Familiar  caro's  from  the  lips  that  fled 

Long  weary  years  ago,  with  fatal  wing, 
T'nto  t'lc  si'ent  regions  of  the  tomb, 
And  died  away  there  in  its  hollow  gloom. 
Hush  !  other  instruments  are  creeping  in 

To,  perfect  the  concordance  of  the  whole, 
And  well  remembered  voices  now  begin 

To  bear  on  wings  invisible  my  soul. 
My  own  !  amongst  them  I  can  hear  my  own — 
Alas  !   'tis  almost  a  forgotten  tone  ! 
Was  it  eve  dark'ning  o'er  the  pleasant  room, 

When  the  soft  breezes  of  the  summer  night 
Breathed  through  its  atmosphere  a  faint  perfume, 

Or  when  the  autumn's  crimson  fire-light 
G'owed  upon  every  brow— thou  still  wert  there, 
Wreck  of  departed  days,  with  many  an  air. 
Joyous  or  sorrowful — profound  or  wild — 

Swiftly  thy  sweeping  chords  gave  out  their  tones, 
Li  dit  us  the  laughter  of  a  sinless  child  — 

l)rc|i  ;is  tin-  anguish  told  in  captive  moans — 
Smooth  as  the  How  of  rivers  to  the  sea — 
Irregular  as  dark  insanity. 

Their  have  been  hands  that  are  beneath  the  mould, 

(I  seem  to  feel  their  dullness  in  thy  touch) 

Eyes,  wept  the  whi'e  they  moved,  that  now  are  cold 

As  this  impassive  metal  :  yet  are  such 
The  things  that  bind  us  nearest,  move  us  most, 
And  leave  a  hopeless  voice  when  they  are  lost. 
Now,  stranger  hands  across  those  keys  will  run, 

And  other  walls  for  other  groups  surround, 
And  stranger  eyes  look  lovingly  upon 

The  unconscious  mover  of  the  realm  of  sound  : 


That  realm,  once  sacred,  my  sweet  home,  to  thee, 
And  ever  sacred  to  my  memory. 

But  thou,  impassive  thing,  thus  severed  wide 
From  thy  sole  wealth  in  those  harmonious  waves, 

Another  empire  be  thine  own  beside  : 
Be  thou  the  pass-key  to  the  spirit  caves, 

Thou  the  deliverer  of  their  captive  throng, 

The  portal  spirit  of  the  gater  of  song. 

SPIRITUAL  BEAUTY. 

THAT  pale  and  shadowy  beauty, 

It  haunts  my  vision  now  : 
The  genius  radiating 

From  the  dazzling  marble  brow — 
The  high  and  saintly  fervor, 

The  meek  and  childlike  faith, 
The  trusting  glance,  which  sayeth 

More  than  mortal  accent  saith : 
They  haunt  me  when  the  night-winds  swell, 
And  daylight  can  not  break  their  spell. 

I  see  the  blue  eye  shining 

Through  the  lashes  as  they  fall, 
An  inward  glory  speaking 

To  the  inward  life  of  all — 
A  ray  that  was  illumined 

At  the  far  celestial  light, 
And  burns  through  mist  and  »hadow, 

A  beacon  ever  bright, 
Serene,  seraphic,  and  sublime, 
And  changeless  with  the  flight  jf  time. 

A  faint,  transparent  rose-light 

Is  trembling  on  the  cheek, 
And  lingering  on  the  pale  lip — 

A  glow  that  seems  to  speak  : 
It  wavers  like  the  taper 

Dim  lit  at  forest  shrine, 
When  night-winds  whisper  to  it : 

It  breathes  of  the  Divine, 
W7ith  its  ethereal  mystery, 
Too  fragile  of  the  earth  to  be. 

Her  grace  is  as  a  shadow — 

As  undefinable ; 
Wedded  to  every  motion  thus, 

And  rarely  beautiful. 
Untaught,  and  all  unconscious, 

It  hath  a  voice  to  me 
Which  eloquently  speaketh 

Of  inward  harmony  : 
Of  Soul  and  Sense  together  swayed — 
To  the  First  Soul  an  offering  made. 
That  pale  and  shadowy  beauty, 

It  seemed  an  inward  thing — 
A  spiritual  vision — 

A  chaste  imagining : 
Not  all  in  form  or  feature 

The  fairy  phantom  dwelt, 
But,  like  the  air  of  heaven, 

Was  yet  less  seen  than  felt — 
A  presence  the  true  heart  to  move 
To  praise,  and  prayer,  and  holy  love. 


ELISE    JUSTINE    BAYARD. 


359 


THE  SEA  AND  THE  SOVEREIGN. 

It  is  said  that  after  the  Heath  of  Piince  William,  eldest  son  of  Henry  I., 
kin-  of  England,  who  was  wrecked  off  the  coast  of  Normandy,  tlie 
nionitrch  was  nevei  seen  to  smile  more. 

OPKX,  ye  ruthless  waves! 
Open  the  mouths  of  your  uncounted  graves, 

To  swallow  up  a  king ! 

It  is  no  common  thing : 
A  kingdom  in  one  man  incarnated 
Goes  down  to  hold  his  court  among  your  dead  ! 

Jewels  lie  fathoms  down 
To  glisten,  set  in  crystal,  on  his  crown; 

A  coral  carcanet 

An  insect  realm  may  set 
(A  bauble  that  a  king  were  proud  to  wear) 
Upon  his  marble  throat,  all  stiff  and  bare. 

Build  him  an  amber  throne, 
And  deck  it  well  with  many  a  burning  stone; 
.      And  let  his  footstool  be 

The  lapis  lazuli ; 

And  hang  his  hall  with  stalactites,  whose  sheen 
May  make  a  daylight  in  the  submarine. 

An  argosy  of  pearls 

May  glisten  in  his  waving  yellow  curls : 
I  ween  no  wealthier  prince 
Hath  swayed  a  kingdom,  since 

The  silver  was  as  dust  in  Judah's  street, 

Trodden  by  Solomon's  imperial  feet. 

Out  bursts  the  ancient  Sea 
With  bitter  merriment  in  mockery : 

"  Take  thou,"  she  saith,  "  the  gem 

To  deck  thy  diadem — 
The  hidden  riches  of  my  caves  be  thine ; 
I  have  thy  treasure — pay  thyself  in  mine ! 

"  The  pomp  is  bootless  now, 
A  gemmed  tiara  for  that  fleshless  brow  ! 

There  is  no  need  of  thrones 

For  those  enamelled  bones; 
Of  daylight  for  those  hollow,  sightless  eyes ! 
I  rob  not:  take  thou  booty  for  my  prize." 

There  is  a  broken  groan, 
A  wail  of  sorrow  from  a  kingly  throne ; 

There  is  a  human  heart 

Of  which  he  was  a  part 

Whom  thou  hast  swallowed,  thou  devouring  Sea  ! 
A  father's  heart  and  cry  of  agony  ! 

For  him  thy  gifts  are  brought — 
For  him  thine  ores  with  cunning  skill  are  wrought. 

He  only  cries  aloud  : 

"  I  crave  but  for  a  shroud  ! 
Oh  Ocean,  pitiless,  relentless  one  ! 
Thy  riches  keep :  give  back,  give  back  my  son ! 

"  Could  I  but  see  my  child 
In  death,  rny  bitter  anguish  were  more  mild ; 

His  buried  form  unseen 

Stands  day  and  me  between — • 
My  vision  blinds,  my  soul,  my  reason  warps ; 
Ocean !  I  would  but  once  behold  his  corpse  !" 

Day  laughs  out  on  the  sky 
With  the  glad  brightness  of  her  waking  eye ; 

In  the  all-blessed  Spring 

Earth  is  a  happy  thing ; 


Yea,  on  her  face  the  false  and  murderous  Sea 
Wears  smiles  of  peace  :  but  never  smileth  HE  ! 

The  altar  shows  the  bride 
Full  of  rneek  gladness  by  her  lover's  side; 

And  childhood's  sweet  caress 

Betokens  happiness; 
Nay,  weary  age  in  infant  purity 
Finds  cause  for  smiles:  but  never  smileth  he  I 

Folly  forgets  her  chime, 
Awed  by  that  sorrow  reverend  and  sublime  ; 

Forgets  Joy  to  be  glad  ; 

Forgets  Grief  to  be  sad  ; 

Smiles  tell  him,  "  Gone  !"  and  at  his  coming  fleo. 
What  lip  dare  smile — for  never  smileth  he  ! 

The  dead  man  all  the  while 
Lies  with  the  horrid  semblance  of  a  smile 

Parting  his  hollow  skull ; 

And  glad  and  beautiful 
His  angel  in  a  new  felicity 
Smiles  from  the  skies :  but  never  smileth  he ! 


WORSHIP. 

LOVE  !  for  the  true  heart's  sacred  love  is  its  Crea 
tor's  will ! 

His    glorious    law    of    sympathy    it    labors    to 
fulfil  : 

So  work  out  in  its  smaller  sphere,  with  faithful  dili 
gence, 

The  mighty,  universal  schemes  of  his  omnipo 
tence. 

Love !  if  ye  can  not  learn  to  love  your  brother  whom 
ye  see, 

How  shall  ye  grow  in  faith  toward  the  unseen 
Deity] 

A  true   heart's  love  is  worship.     Indirectly  it  is 
praise, 

And    prayer :    for  piety   is  not  to  cultivate   one 
phase 

Of  this   anomalous    being,   with   its  wide   capa 
city — 

Its  vast    illimitable    range    of  power   and    fan 
tasy  : 

The  length,  the  breadth,  the  height,  the  depth,  of 
this  which  we  call  man, 

God  hath  made  this  to  worship  him,  as  nothing 
narrow  can : 

Universality  of  gifts  upon  one  creature  shed, 

And  to  the  Benefactor's  praise  shall  all  save  one 
be  dead? 

Mind,  soul,  heart,  strength,  all  else  of  good,  of  rich 
and  beautiful, 

Lavished  upon  the  human  frame,  yet  every  sense 
be  dull 

Save  one  !  one  only  live  to  him  of  all  this  glorious 
tower? — 

Forbid  it,  Honor,  Truth  !     No  !  work  is  piety  of 
power ; 

Genius  is  piety  of  mind ;  Love  piety  of  heart ; 

Religion  piety  of  soul.     It  will  not  serve  to  part 

These  elements  of  worship,  and  then  blasphemous 
ly  give 

The  mutilated  corpse  to  Him  through  whom  the 
whole  must  live. 


LUCY    LARCOM. 


(Born  1826). 


Miss  LARCOM  is  a  native  of  Massachusetts, 
and  was  for  several  years  employed  in  one 
of  the  factories  at  Lowell.  She  has  been  a 
frequent  contributor  to  the  Lowell  Offering, 
fjr  the  early  volumes  of  which  she  wrote  a 
series  of  parables  that  attracted  much  atten 
tion.  She  is  now  a  teacher  in  Illinois,  but 


continues  to  write  for  this  interesting 


peri 


odical,  which  illustrates  so  beautifully  the 
character,  taste,  and  abilities,  of  the  New 
England  operatives.  Mr.  Whittier,  in  refer 
ring  to  some  of  her  poems,  observes :  "  That 
they  were  written  by  a  young  woman  whose 
life  has  been  no  long  holyday  of  leisure,  but 


one  of  toil  and  privation,  does  not  indeed  en 
hance  their  intrinsic  merit,  but  it  lends  them 
an  interest  in  the  eyes  of  those  who,  like  our-, 
selves,  long  to  see  the  cords  of  caste  broken, 
and  the  poor  niceties  of  aristocratic  exclu- 
siveness,  irrational  and  unchristian  every 
where,  but  in  addition  ridiculous  in  a  coun 
try  like  ours,  vanish  before  the  true  nobility 
of  mind  —  the  natural  graces  of  a  good  heart 
and  a  useful  life  —  the  self-sustained  dignity 
of  a  spirit  superior  to  the  folly  of  accounting 
labor  degradation,  and  usefulness  a  calamity, 
and  which  can  not  count  as  common  and  un 
clean  the  duties  which  God  has  sanctified." 


ELISHA  AND  THE  ANGELS. 

THE  cheerful  sunbeams  hastened  up  the  east, 
Chasing  the  gray  mists  to  the  mountain-tops, 
And  morning  burst  upon  Gilboa's  hills. 
The  playful  kids  were  leaping  o'er  the  crags; 
The  little  happy  birds,  that  all  night  long 
In  the  dry  clefts  had  found  a  nestling-place, 
Were  flying  sunward,  singing  hyrnns  of  praise; 
And  from  the  green,  awakening  vales  arose 
The  sound  of  bleating  herds  and  lowing  kine. 
Eiisha's  servant,  issuing  early  forth 
To  the  day's  needful  toil,  with  vigorous  step 
Trod  a  worn  path  that  wound  among  the  rocks. 
Ho  paused  to  gaze  upon  the  enlivening  scene, 
And  hear  the  harmony  of  Nature's  joy, 
And  bless  the  God  of  morning. 

Suddenly 

A  flash  of  light  unusual  struck  his  eye: 
Half  doubting,  he  beheld  a  line  of  spears 
And  burnished  shields,  that  from  a  neighboring  hill 
In  mocking  splendor  threw  the  sunlight  back; 
And  saw,  stretched  far  around,  a  circle  wide 
Of  rich  war-chariots,  while  horsemen  armed 
Crowded  each  mountain-pass  and  deep  defile. 
Too  well  he  knew  the  terrible  array — 
The  Assyrian  host,  his  master's  foes  and  his ! 
Fear,  like  an  inward  demon,  blanched  his  cheek, 
Stared  from  his  eye,  and  shook  his  nerveless  limbs. 
Poor,  feeble  man  !  why,  e'en  the  little  birds, 
That  sung  so  blithely  o'er  the  frightful  chasms, 
Had  taught  him  stronger  confidence  than  this. 
Yet,  weak  as  he,  how  often  we  foruet 
That  in  our  great  All-seeing  Father's  sight 
"We  are  worth  more  than  sparrows ! 

Back  he  turned 
I  'nto  the  prophet's  dwelling,  nor  did  rest 


Till,  faint  with  terror,  at  his  feet  he  fell. 
The  man  of  God  upon  his  threshold  stood, 
His  forehead  bared  unto  the  streaming  light, 
And  inspiration  beaming  from  his  eye. 
Doth  he  not  tremble  ?     Nay  ;  the  cedar-tree, 
That  stands  in  unmoved  grandeur  at  his  side, 
Is  not  more  firm  than  he.     Calmly  he  scans 
The  panoply  of  war  before  him  spread, 
As  'twere  a  flock  reposing  in  the  shade. 
He  hears  his  prostrate  servant's  stifled  cry — 
"Alas,  my  master!  how  shall  we  escape?" 
How  foolish  must  such  fright  have  seemed  to  him 
Whose  eyes  the  Lord  had  opened  !  Should  he  deign 
To  speak  a  soothing  word,  and  lull  his  fears? 
If  man  might  e'er  be  proud,  'twas  surely  he, 
Who  had  been  singled  out  from  common  men 
To  be  an  oracle  unto  his  kind. 
His  was  the  dignity  sublime  of  one 
Who  feels  divinity  within  him  burn,  [God 

And  thinks  the  thoughts  and  speaks  the  words  of 
But  haughtiness  belongs  to  narrow  souls, 
And  wisdom  is  too  godlike  to  be  proud. 
Elisha  owned  himself  of  kindred  dust 
With  that  frail  trembler.  ,  Mildly  he  replied  : 
"  Fear  thou  no  more  ;  for  lo  !  a  mightier  force 
Than  all  yon  heathen  host,  is  on  our  side." — 
"But  where?"  the  servant's  doubtful  glance  in 
quires. 

The  prophet  answered  not,  but  clasped  his  hands, 
Looked  up  to  heaven,  and  prayed  in  tones  subdued, 
"  Lord,  open  thou  his  eyes,  that  he  may  see !" 

How  changed  the  scene  !  these  rocks,  that  lately 
Opaque  and  dull  beneath  the  azure  sky,  [lay 

!    Are  robed  in  glory  that  outshines  the  sun. 
Embattled  legions  gird  the  prophet  round 
Withb'azonedbannersand  heaven-tempered  spears, 
Horses  and  chariots,  in  whose  fiery  sheen 
360 


LUCY"   LARCOM. 


361 


The  pomp  of  Syria's  army  but  appears 
Like  a  dim  candle  in  the  noonday  blaze: 
The  mount  is  full  of  angels ! 

Blest  were  we, 

When  every  earthly  prospect  is  shut  in, 
And  all  our  mortal  helpers  disappear, 
If,  with  Faith's  eye  undimmed  and  opened  wide, 
We  might  behold  the  blessTd  an^el-troop 
Which  God,  our  God,  has  promised  shall  encamp 
Round  those  who  fear  his  name.   Our  sickly  doubts, 
That  flit  like  foul  night-ravens  o'er  our  souls, 
Wou'd  hush  their  screams  and  fly  before  the  dawn ; 
And  we  should  learn  to  fear  no  evil  thing, 
And  in  Adversity's  grim  gaze  could  smile. 

Sometimes,  when  wandering  in  a  labyrinth 
Whence  we  can  find  no  clue,  and  all  is  dark, 
We  wonder  why  our  spirits  do  not  die. 
Perhaps  in  secret  bowed,  some  holy  soul 
Utters  for  u-;  the  prophet's  kind  lequest; 
And  we,  though  dimly,  are  allowed  to  see 
The  prints  of  angels'  feet  along  the  road  ; 
And  our  hearts,  beating  lightly,  follow  on 
After  the  step.-;  that  sound  before,  albeit 
Uncertain  whose  they  are,  though  we  are  sure 
Of  a  safe  outlet  from  the  tangled  way. 

Father  of  Spirits  !  Savior  of  our  souls  ! 
Let  heavenly  guides  go  with  us  down  life's  way; 
And  when  we  come  unto  that  river's  brink 
Upon  whose  other  bank  in  light  and  love 
We  shall  be  as  the  angels — then  we  know 
Thou  wilt  be  near  us,  though  this  earthborn  clay, 
Shrinking  in  mortal  terror  from  the  plunge 
Which  shall  release  its  tenant  unto  bliss, 
May  with  foreboding  clouds  obscure  our  faith 
And  hide  thy  presence.     Oh!  hear  now  one  prayer 
Which  then  our  hearts  may  be  too  faint  to  breathe  : 
**  Lord,  open  thou  our  eyes,  that  we  may  see !" 


THE  BURNING  PRAIRIE. 


XG  throws  her  dusky  mantle 

O'er  the  boundless,  grassy  sea  ; 
Here  and  there,  like  ships  at  anchor, 

In  the  moonlight  stands  a  tree  ; 
While  the  stars  that  nightly  travel 

O'er  the  highway  of  the  skies, 
Bend  upon  earth's  weary  pilgrims 

Still  and  clear  their  earnest  eyes. 

Now  the  constellations  brighten  : 

Like  a  stern  and  warlike  lord, 
Bright  Orion  leads  the  pageant  — 

He  of  gleaming  belt  and  sword. 
In  his  wake  glide  forth  the  Pleiads  ; 

By  the  pole-star  leaps  the  Bear  ; 
Down  the  star-paved  road  in  silence 

Rides  the  Lady  in  her  Chair  ! 


But  behold  !  an  earthly  glimmer 

Rises  'neath  the  starry  beam ; 
Far  along  the  prairie's  border 

How  the  ruddy  fringes  stream ! 
See  the  red  flames  darting  forward, 

Sparkling  through  the  withered  grass, 
WThile  the  lurid  smoke  uprolling 

Stains  the  azure  as  they  pass. 

Who  the  distant  blaze  enkindled  ? 

Can  it  be  some  savage  clan 
Flinging  out  the  wingt-d  wildfire 

To  affright  the  pale-faced  man? 
Nay  :  for  Mississippi's  water 

Speeds  no  sachem's  light  canoe. 
And  beside  the  dark  Missouri 

Are  the  Indians'  wigwams  few. 

'T  is  the  farmer's  mighty  besom : 

Thus  he  sweeps  the  fertile  plain — 
Lays  it  bare  unto  the  baptism 

Of  the  softening  vernal  rain. 
Where  the  billowy  flame  is  rolling, 

Shall  a  warmer  sun  behold 
Verdant  pastures  richly  laden, 

Harvests  tinged  with  wavy  gold. 

Brighter  visions  burst  upon  me ; 

For  the  dear  enchantress,  Hope, 
Bids  me  look  into  the  future 

Through  her  magic  telescope. 
Lo  !   a  glorious  blaze  ascending — 

Purer,  loftier  doth  it  grow, 
Every  ridge  and  swell  revealing, 

Softened  in  the  mellow  glow. 

'T  is  the  central  fire  of  Freedom, 

Lighted  on  the  nation's  heart : 
Cynosure  of  happy  millions, 

Fadeless  peace  its  rays  impart ; 
Truth  and  Love,  their  white  wings  waving. 

Sit  and  fan  it  all  day  long, 
And  to  meet  its  warmth  and  brightness 

Ever  pours  a  grateful  throng. 
Let  it  blaze  !     The  Pilgrim's  watch-fire. 

Kindled  first  on  Plymouth  rock, 
Must  not  die  upon  the  prairies, 

Nor  with  fitful  flickerings  mock. 
Every  lowly  cabin  window 

Shall  reflect  its  steady  light, 
And  beyond  the  red  horizon 

It  shall  make  the  country  bright. 

Then  the  gazers  of  the  nations, 

And  the  watchers  of  the  skies, 
Looking  through  the  coming  ages 

Shall  behold,  with  joyful  eyes, 
In  the  fiery  track  of  Freedom 

Fall  the  mild  baptismal  rain, 
And  the  ashes  of  old  Evil 

Feed  the  Future's  golden  grain. 


EDITH    MAY." 


"  EDITH  MAY"  is  a  name  bestowed,  I  be 
lieve,  by  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis,  upon  one  cf  the 
most  brilliant  of  our  younger  poets.  She  is 
a  native  and  until  recently  was  a  resident  of 
Philadelphia  ;  but  for  three  or  four  years  her 
home  has  been  in  "  the  most  secluded  part 
of  Pennsylvania,  on  the  borders  of  a  small 
lake,  in  one  of  that  state's  most  romantic 
neighborhoods."  The  character  cf  her  ge 
nius  will  be  seen  in  her  Count  Julio,  which 
was  written  when  she  was  but  seventeen 
years  of  age  ;  and  the  critical  reader  will 
feel  as  much  hope  as  pleasure  as  he  sees  in 
its  splendid  blossoming  promise  of  future 
fruits  with  which  few  of  the  productions  of 
female  genius  can  be  compared. 


Her  dramatic  power,  observation  of  .ife, 
imagination,  fancy,  and  the  easy  and  naiural 
flow  of  her  verse,  which  is  noAvhere  marred 
by  any  blemish  of  imperfect  taste,  entitle  this 
very  youthful  poet  to  a  place  in  the  common 
es.imation  inferior  to  none  occupied  by  wri 
ters  of  her  years.  And  there  are  scattered 
through  her  poems  gleams  of  an  intelligence 
which  they  do  not  fully  disclose,  and  felici 
ties  of  expression  betraying  a  latent  power 
greater  than  is  exerted,  so  that  we  are  not 
authorized  to  receive  what  she  has  accom 
plished,  brilliant  as  it  is,  as  a  demonstration 
of  the  entire  character  and  force  of  her  fac 
ulties. 


COUNT  JULIO. 

Mm  piles  beneath  whose  fretted  cornices 
Echo  still  babbles  of  a  glorious  past, 
Dwelt  Julio,  the  miser.     Nobly  born, 
Reared  amid  palaces,  and  trained  from  youth 
To  the  gay  vices  of  a  liberal  age, 
How  came  it  now,  that  year  on  year  sped  on 
To  leave  the  proud  count  in  his  silent  halls, 
Hoarding  the  gold  once  lavished  ] 

Young  and  fair, 

The  haughtiest  noble  of  the  Roman  court, 
The  stateliest  of  the  highborn  throng  that  graced 
Its  princely  revels,  he  had  left  the  feast, 
Bidding  the  bright  wine  that  he  quaffed  in  parting, 
Be  to  him  thence  accurs  d.     Nevermore 
Checked  he  his  courser  by  the  Tiber's  bank, 
Nor  struck  the  sweet  chords  of  his  lute,  nor  trod 
Glad  measures  with  the  bright-lipped  Roman  dames; 
And  from  the  lintels  of  his  banquet-hall 
The  spider  balanced  on  its  gossamer  thread, 
Dust  heaped  the  silken  couches,  and  where  swept 
Golden-fringed  curtains  to  the  chequered  floor, 
The  rat  <,rn;i\vnl  silently,  and  gray  moths  fed 
On  the  rich  produce  of  the  Asian  loom. 
Men  shunned  bis  threshold,  and  his  palace  doors 
Creaked  on  their  rusty  hinges.    Prince  and  peasant 
Alike  turned  coldly  at  his  coming  step; 
The  very  bepcrar,  that  at  noontide  lay 
Basking  'neath  sunlight  in  the  quiet  street, 
Stretched  not  his  hand  forth  as  the  miser  passed. 

He  cared  not  for  their  scorn.  Man's  breath  to  him 
Was  like  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  scath  d  oak. 
And  finds  no  leaf  to  flutter!     Fate  had  left 

Only  two  things  on  earth  for  him  to  love 

The  gold  he  heaped,  and  the  fair,  motherless  child, 


j    Who  by  bis  side  grew  up  to  womanhood  : 
!    And  these  he  worshipped,  loathing  all  things  else. 
His  couch  was  ruder  than  a  cloistered  monk's — 
Bianca's  head  was  pillowed  upon  down ; 
His  fare  was  scanty  and  his  raiment  coarse, 
But  she  was  clad  like  princes,  and  her  board 
i    Heaped  with  the  costliest  viands.    From  the  world 
1    He  shrank  abhorrent,  but  Bianca  shone 
!    Proudest  and  fairest  in  a  brilliant  court, 
i    Her  youth  had  been  most  lonely.     By  his  side 
To  watch  the  piling  of  the  golden  heaps 
He  told  so  greedilv  ;  to  play  alone 
!   In  gardens  where  no  hand  had  put  aside 
I   The  flowers  and  weeds,  that  in  one  tangled  woof 
Hung  o'er  the  fountain's  dusty  bed,  and  crept 
Round  the  tall  porticoes ;  perchance  to  sit 
|    Hour  after  hour  all  silent  at  his  feet, 

Twining  her  small  arms  and  her  baby  throat 
|    With  the  rare  treasures  that  his  caskets  held — 
i    Rubies,  and  pearls,  and  flashing  carcanets, 
j    Her  costly  playthings — a!l  companionless, 
These  were  her  childish  pastimes.     Years  wore  on, 
Till  the  close  dawn  of  perfect  womanhood 
Fiushed  in  her  cheek  and  brightened  in  her  eye — • 
And  the  girl  learned  to  know  bow  fair  the  face 
Those  dingy  walls  had  cloistered  from  the  sun ; 
To  bear  her  head  more  proudly,  and  to  step, 
If  not  so  lightly,  with  a  gracelier  tread. 
Love-songs  were  framed  for  her  ;  her  midnight  rest 
Was  broken  by  the  sound  of  silver  lutes, 
And  the  young  gallants  caracoled  their  steeds 
Gayly  at  eve  beneath  her  ba'cony. 

She  went  forth  to  the  world,  and  careless  lips 
Told  her  the  shame  that  was  her  heritage, 
And  scornful  fingers  poi;ited  as  she  passed 
To  the  rare  jewels  and  the  broidered  robes 
362 


EDITH    MAY." 


363 


That  decked  the  miser's  daughter ;  envious  tongues 
Gilded  anew  the  half-forgotten  tale, 
And  it  became  the  marvel  of  a!l  Rome: 
Thus,  till  the  diadem  of  gems  and  gold 
Burned  on  her  white  brow  like  a  circling  flame, 
And  she  went  writhing  home,  to  weep — to  loathe 
The  sordid  parent  who  had  brought  this  blight 
Upon  the  joyous  promise  of  her  youth ! 

It  was  the  still  noon  of  a  summer  night, 
When  the  young  countess  from  her  father's  roof 
Fled — with  a  noble  of  the  Roman  court. 
Morn  came,  and  through  the  empty  corridors, 
The  balconies,  the  gardens,  the  wide  halls, 
In  vain  they  sought  her.    Noon  passed  by,  and  then 
The  truth  was  guessed,  not  spoken  !     Silently 
Count  Julio  trod  the  marble  staircases, 
And  pausing  by  the  door  that  once  was  hers, 
Stood  a  brief  moment,  and  then,  pressing  on, 
Stepped  through  the  quiet  chamber.    All  was  still, 
Bearing  no  traces  of  her  recent  flight. 
Here  lay  a  slipper,  here  a  silken  robe, 
And  here  a  lute  thrown  down,  with  a  white  glove 
Flung  carelessly  beside  it.     Still  the  air 
Breathed  of  the  delicate  perfumes  she  had  loved. 

He  glanced  but  once  around  the  empty  room, 
Then  from  the  mirrored  and  silk-draperied  walls 
Cast  his  eye  downward  o'er  his  shrunken  form, 
His  meagre  garments.     Few  the  words  he  spake, 
And  muttered  low :  but  in  them  came  a  curse, 
So  blasphemous,  so  hideous  in  its  depth 
Of  impotent  rage,  that  they  who  at  his  side 
Yet  stood  in  lingering  pity,  with  blanched  lips 
Turned  to  the  threshold,  and  crept  shuddering  forth. 

He  breathed  his  sorrow  to  no  human  ear, 
But  left  it  channelled  in  his  heart,  to  breed 
Corruption  there.     None  knew  how  wearily 
The  hours  passed  on  beneath  those  lonely  walls ; 
None  saw  him,  when  by  midnight  still  a  watcher 
He  brooded  o'er  his  anguish,  pale  and  faint, 
Starting  and  trembling,  as  inconstantly 
The  night  winds  swayed  the  curtains  to  and  fro, 
Fancying  the  rustle  of  her  silken  robe, 
Her  footfall  on  the  staircase  !     Time  sped  on 
To  strike  the  dulled  bloom  from  his  cheek,  and  sere 
The  soul  that  once  had  queened  it  on  his  brow. 
A  bent  and  wan  old  man,  upon  whose  breast 
Hung  the  neglected  masses  of  his  beard — 
With  tremulous  hands,  habitually  clinched 
Till  the  sharp  nails  wore  furrows  in  the  palms — 
Thus  stole  he  forth  at  even,  and  with  eyes 
Lost  in  the  golden  future  of  his  dreams,         [ing. 
Passed  through  the  busy  crowds  unmarked,  unheed- 

Once  had  he  looked  upon  Bianca's  face — 
Once  had  she  knelt  before  him,  with  her  child 
Gasping  upon  her  breast,  and  prayed  for  succor. 
The  unwept  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl, 
Her  lord  had  fallen,  and  the  palace  walls 
That  owned  her  mistress  were  deserted  now. 
She  had  braved  fear  and  hunger,  till  her  babe 

Wailed  dying  on  her  bosom,  and  so  urged • 

Pride,  shame,  forgotten  in  a  mother's  love — 
Clung  to  his  knees  for  pardon.     But  in  vain : 
lie  cursed  her  as  she  knelt — bade  her  go  forth, 
And  mid  the  loathsome  suppliants  that  unveil 
Disease  and  suffering  ;o  the  eye  of  wealth, 


Bare,  too,  her  anguish  to  the  glance  of  Pity  ; 
Then,  as  she  lingered,  spurned  her  from  his  feet 
With  words  that  chilled  her  agony  to  dread, 
And  drove  her  thence  in  horror ! 

From  that  day 

His  very  blood  seemed  charged  with  bitterness. 
Miser  and  usurer  both,  upon  the  wrecks 
Of  others'  happiness  he  built  his  own  ; 
His  name  became  accursi  d  in  the  land, 
And  with  his  withering  soul  his  body  grew 
Scarce  human  in  its  ghastly  hideousness. 

The  bulb  enshrouds  the  lily ;  and  within 
The  most  unsightly  form  may  folded  lie 
The  white  wings  of  an  angel.     But  in  him 
Seemed  all  the  sweet  humanities  of  life 
Coldly  encharnelled ;  and  no  hand  divine 
Rolled  from  his  breast  the  weary  weight  of  sin, 
To  bid  them  go  forth  unto  suffering  man 
Like  gracious  ministers. 

And  she,  alas ! 

Whom  he  had  madly  driven  forth  to  ruin — 
Earth  hath  no  words  to  tell  how  dark  the  change 
That  clothed  her  fallen  spirit.     O'er  the  waste 
Of  want  and  horror  that  engulfed  her  fortunes, 
She  had  sent  forth  the  white  dove,  Puritv, 
And  it  returned  no  more.     The  Roman  dames 
Took  net  her  name  upon  their  scornful  lips. 
Her  form  became  a  model  for  the  artist ; 
And  her  rare  face  went  down  to  future  ages, 
Limned  on  his  canvass.     Ye  may  mark  it  yet, 
In  the  long  galleries  of  the  Vatican, 
Varied  but  still  the  same :  now  robed  in  pride, 
As  monarchs  in  their  garbs  of  Syrian  purple ; 
Now  with  a  Magdalen's  blue  mantle  drawn 
Over  the  bending  forehead.     As  the  marble 
Sleeps  in  unsullied  whiteness  on  the  tomb, 
Taking  no  taint  from  the  foul  thing  it  covers, 
Her  beauty  bore  no  blight  from  guilt,  but  lived 
A  monument  that  made  her  name  immortal. 

Night  had  uprisen,  clothed  with  storms  and  gloom; 
No  taper  lit  the  solitary  hall, 
And  to  and  fro,  with  feeble  steps,  its  lord     [then, 
Paced  through  the  darkness.     Midnight  came,  and 
Pausing  beside  the  groaning  door,  that  weighed 
Its  rusty  hinge,  Count  Julio,  crouching,  peered 
Into  the  gloom  without;  for  stea'thy  feet, 
WThose  echo  struck  upon  his  wary  ear, 
Had  passed  the  lower  halls,  and  slowly  now 
Trod  the  great  slaircase. 

'T  was  no  robber's  step  : 
Faint,  s'ow,  and  halting,  ever  and  anon, 
As  though  in  weariness.     His  sharpened  sense 
Caught,  mid  the  fitful  pauses  of  the  wind, 
The  headlong  dashing  of  the  driven  rain, 
A  sound  of  painful  breathing — nay,  of  sobs — 
Bursting,  and  then  as  suddenly  suppressed. 

Shuddering  he  stood  ;  and  as  the  storm's  red  bolt 
Leaped  through  the  windows,  lighting  as  it  passed, 
A  dusky  shape,  that  cowered  at  the  flash, 
He  shrank  within  the  chamber,  and  once  more 
Listened  in  silence. 

Nearer  came  the  sound  : 

A  tall  form  crossed  the  threshold,  and  threw  back 
What  seemed  a  heavy  mantle.     Then  again 
Glanced  the  pale  lightning,  and  Count  Julio  knew 


"EDITH  MAY; 


By  the  long  hair  that  swept  her  garments'  hem, 
Bianc.i  ! — 

They  who  through  that  night  of  fear 
Kept  watc  .  with  storm  and  terror  till  the  dawn, 
Bore  its  dark  memories  even  to  the  tomb : 
For  shrieks  and  cries  seemed  mingled  with  the  wind; 
And  voices,  as  of  warring  fiends,  prevailed 
O'er  its  low  muttering*.     Morn  awoke  at  last; 
And  with  it*  earliest  gleam  Count  Julio  crept 
Out  through  his  palace  gardens.     Swollen  drops 
Hung  from  the  curved  roofs  of  the  porticoes; 
His  footsteps  dashed   them  from  the  earth-bowed 
And  from  the  tangles  of  the  matted  grass  ;    [leaves, 
But  over-head  the  day  broke  gloriously. 

V\  here  once  a  fountain  to  the  sunlight  leaped, 
A  marble  naiad,  by  its  weedy  bed, 
Stood  on  her  pedestal.      With  hand  outstretched 
She  grasped  a  hollowed  shell,  now  brimming  o'er; 
While  a  green  vine  that  round  her  arm  had  crept, 
Hose,  serpent-like,  and  in  the  chd  ice  dipped 
Its  cur.ing  tendrils.     Thither  turned  his  eye 
Just  as  the  red  uprising  of  the  morn 
Flushed  the  pale  statue,  and  crept  brightening  down, 
Even  to  its  very  base.     Mantled  and  prone, 
A  heap  that  scarcely  seemed  a  human  form, 
Crouched  in  the  shadow,  and  with  totteiirig  feet 
The  old  man  hurried  onward.     Motionless, 
It  stirred  not  at  his  footsteps  :  nearer  still —    [hands 
He  marked  a  white  lace,  upward  turned,  clinched 
Locked  in  the  luu'r  that  swept  its  ghastly  brow  ! 
Shading  his  weak  eyes  from  the  blinding  sun, 
Cowering  in  trembling  horror  to  the  earth, 
Still  on  he  crept ;  then  bending  softly  down, 
Spake  in  a  smothered  voice — "  Hist,  hist,  Bianca  !" 

Oh,  mockery  !     Her  ear  that  he  had  filled 
With  curses,  woke  not  to  the  tones  of  love ;  [not 
The  breast  that  he  had  spurned  from  him,  heaved 
At  his  wild  anguish.     Death  had  done  its  work: 
The  tempest  had  been  merciless  as  the  parent 
That  drove  her  forth  to  meet  it ;  and  the  flash 
Of  its  red  eye  more  withering  than  his  scorn ! 
Shunned,  both  in  penitence  and  guilt;  forsaken 
By  those  who  only  prized  her  for  the  beauty 
Time  and  perchance  remorse  had  touch'd  with  blight; 
Drenched  with  the  rain ;  all  breathless  with  the  storm; 
Homeless  and  hopeless — she  had  crept  to  him 
Once  more  a  suppliant:  spurned  rudely  forth, 
Here  had  lain  down  despairing,  and  so  perished. 


STORM  AT  TWILIGHT 

TIIK  roar  of  a  chafed  lion,  in  his  lair 
Begirt  by  levelled  spears.     A  sudden  flash, 
Intense,  yet  wavering,  like  a  beast's  fierce  eye 
Searching  the  darkness.     The  wild  bay  of  winds 
Sweeps  the  burnt  plains  of  heaven,  and  from  afar 
Linked  clouds  are  riding  up  like  eager  horsemen, 
Javelin  in  hand.     From  the  north  wings  of  twilight 
There  fulls  unwonted  shadow,  and  strange  gloom 
Cloisters  the  unwilling  stars.     The  sky  is  roofed 
With  tempest,  and  the  moon's  i.cant  rays  fall  through 
Like  light  let  dimly  through  the  fissured  rock 
Vaulting  a  cavern.     To  the  horizon 
The  qreen  sea  of  the  forest  hath  rolled  back 
Its  levelled  billows,  and  where  mastlike  trees 


Sway  to  its  bosom,  here  and  there  a  vine,     [aloft 
Braced  to  some  pine's  bare  shaft,  clings — rocked 
Like  a  bo'd  mariner.     There  is  no  bough 
But  lifteth  its  appealing  arm  to  Heaven. 
The  scudding  grass  is  shivering  as  it  flies, 
And  herbs  and  flowers  crouch  to  their  mother  earth 
Like  frightened  children,     "fis  more  terrible 
When  the  hoar  thunder  speaks,  and  the  fleet  wind 
Stops,  like  a  steed  that  knows  his  rider's  voice — 
For  oh  !  the  rush  that  follows  is  the  calm 
Of  a  despairing  heart ;  and  as  a  maniac 
Loses  his  grief  in  raving,  the  mad  storm, 
Weeping  hot  tears,  awakens  with  a  sob 
From  its  blank  desolation,  and  shrieks  on ! 


JULIETTE. 

WHERE  the  rough  crags  lift,  and  the  sea  mews  call, 
Yet  stands  Earl  Hubert's  castle  tall  : 
Close  at  the  base  of  its  western  wall 
The  chafed  waves  stand  at  bay ; 
And  the  May-rose  twined  in  its  banquet  hall 

Dips  to  the  circling  spray. 
For  the  May-rose  springs,  and  the  ivy  clings, 

And  the  wallflower  flaunts  in  the  ruined  bower, 
And  the  sea-bird  foldeth  her  weary  wings 

Up  in  the  stone-gray  tower. 
Scaling  an  arch  of  the  postern  rude, 

A  wild  vine  dips  to  the  ocean's  flow ; 
Deep  in  the  niches  the  blind  owls  brood, 

And  the  fringing  moss  hangs  low 
Where  stout  Earl  Hubert's  banner  stood 

Five  hundred  years  ago  ! 
Out  from  the  castle's  western  wall 
Jutteth  a  tower  round  and  tall, 
And  leading  up  to  the  parapet 

By  a  winding  turret-stair: 
Over  the  sea  there  looketh  yet 

A  chamber  small  and  square, 
Where  the  faint  daylight  comes  in  alone 
Through  a  narrow  slit  in  the  solid  stone ; 

And  here,  old  records  say, 
Earl  Hubert  bore  his  wayward  child 

From  courts  and  gallanis  gay — 
That,  guarded  by  the  billows  wild, 
And  cloistered  from  her  lover's  arms, 
Here  might  she  mourn  her  wasted  charms, 

Here  weep  her  youth  away. 
"One — two!"  said  the  sentinel, 

Pacing  his  rounds  by  the  eastern  tower. 
Up  in  the  turret  a  solemn  knell 
Tolled  for  the  parting  hour ; 
Over  the  ocean  its  echo  fell — 
"  One  !  two  !" — like  a  silver  bell 

Chiming  afar  in  the  sea-nymph's  bower. 
Shrill  and  loud  was  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
The  watch-dog  bayed  as  the  moon  rose  high, 

The  great  waves  swelled  below  ; 
And  the  measured  plash  of  a  dipping  oar 
Broke  softly  through  their  constant  roar, 

And  paused  beneath  the  shade 
Flung  westward  by  that  turret  hoar 

Where  slept  the  prisoned  maid. 
The  sentinel  paced  to  and  fro 


EDITH   MAY." 


3(55 


Under  the  castle  parapet, 
But,  in  her  chamber,  Ju  iette 
Heard  not  the  tramp  of  his  clanging  foot, 

Nor  the  watchdog  baying  near — 
Only  the  sound  of  a  low  toned  lute 

Stole  to  her  dreaming  ear. 

The  moon  rode  up  as  the  night  wore  on, 

Looking  down  with  a  1>  hiding  glare 
Into  that  chamber  still  and  lone, 
Touching  the  rough-hewn  cross  of  stone 

And  the  prayer-beads  glittering  there — 
The  loosened  waves  of  the  sleeper's  hair, 
And  the  curve  of  her  shou'der,  white  and  bare ! 

She  dreamed!  she  dreamed!  that  dreary  keep 

Melted  away  in  the  calm  moonbeams; 
The  deep  bell's  call  and  the  wave's  hoarse  sweep 
Changed  for  the  lull  of  a  forest  deep, 

And  the  pleasant  voice  of  streams. 
She  seemed  to  sit  by  a  mossy  stone, 
To  watch  the  blood-red  sun  go  down 
And  hang  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon 

Like  a  ruby  set  in  a  golden  ring; 

To  hear  the  wild  birds  sing 
Up  in  the  larch-boughs,  loud  and  sweet, 
Over  a  surf  where  the  soft  waves  beat 
With  a  sound  like  a  naiad's  dancing  feet. 
For  here  and  there  on  its  winding  way 

Down  by  dingle  and  shady  nook, 
Under  the  white  thorn's  dropping  spray 

Glittered  the  thread  of  a  slender  brook ; 
And  scarce  a  roebuck's  leap  beyond, 
Close  at  the  brink  of  its  grassy  bound, 
She  heard  her  lover's  chiding  hound, 

His  bugle's  merry  play. 
Oh  !  it  was  sweet  again  to  be 

Under  the  free  blue  skies  ! 
She  turned  on  her  pillow  restless'y, 

And  the  tears  to  her  sleeping  eyes 
Came  welling  up  as  the  full  drops  start 
With  Spring's  first  smile  from  a  fountain's  heart. 

Up  rose  the  maid  in  her  dreamy  rest, 

And  flung  a  robe  o'er  her  shou'ders  bare, 
And  gathered  the  threads  of  her  floating  hair, 
Ere  with  a  foot  on  the  turret  stair 
She  paused,  then  onward  pressed, 
As  the  tones  of  a  soft  lute  broke  again 
Through  the  deeper  chords  of  the  voiceful  main. 
Steep  and  rude  was  the  perilous  way ; 
Through  loopholes  square  and  small 
The  night  looked  into  the  turret  gray, 

And  over  the  massive  wall 
In  blocks  of  light  the  moonbeams  lay ; 
But  the  changeful  ghosts  of  the  showering  spray 
And  the  mirrored  play  of  the  waters  dim 
Rippled  and  glanced  on  the  ceiling  grim. 

The  moon  looked  into  her  sleeping  eyes, 

The  night  wind  stirred  her  hair, 
And  wandering  blindly,  Juliette, 
Close  on  the  verge  of  the  parapet, 

Stood  without  in  the  open  air. 
Under  the  blue  arch  of  the  skies, 

Save  for  the  pacing  sentinel, 

Save  for  the  ocean's  constant  swell, 
There  seemed  astir  no  earthly  thing. 


Below,  the  great  waves  rose  and  fell, 
Scaling  ever  their  craggy  bound, 

But  scarce  a  zephyr's  dipping  wing 
Broke  the  silver  crust  of  the  sea  beyond : 

And  in  her  lifelike  dream 
The  maiden  now  had  wandered  on 

To  the  brink  of  the  slender  stream ; 
Then  pausing,  stayed  her  eager  foot, 
For  with  the  brook's  sweet  monotone 
Mingled  the  soft  voice  of  a  lute ; 
And,  where  the  levelled  moonbeams  played 
Over  the  lap  of  a  turfy  glade, 
A  hound  lay  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Rocked  bv  the  light  waves  to  and  fro, 

Scarcely  an  arrow's  flight  from  shore, 
Her  lover  in  his  bark  below 

Paused,  resting  on  the  oar, 
Watching  the  foam-wreaths  bead  and  fall 
Like  shattered  stars  from  the  castle  wall. 
And  higher  yet  he  raised  his  eyes — 

Jesu  !   he  started  with  affright ! 
For  painted  on  the  dusky  skies 

Seemed  hovering  in  the  tremulous  light 

A  figure  small  and  angel  white ! 
Against  the  last  lay  far  and  dim, 

Touched  by  the  moon's  uncertain  ray, 
The  airy  form  of  the  turret  grim. 
Doubtful  he  gazed  a  moment's  space, 
Then  rowed  toward  the  castle's  base, 

But  checked  his  oar  midway, 
And  gazing  up  at  the  parapet, 
Shouted  the  one  word,  "  Juliette  !" 
Lute,  baying  hound,  and  restless  deep, 

Each  gave  the  clue  bewildered  Thought 
Had  followed  through  the  maze  of  sleep, 

And  by  her  lulled  ear  faintly  caught 

Her  lover's  voice  its  echo  wrought. 
She  heard  him  call,  she  saw  him  stand, 
WTith  smiling  lip  and  beckoning  hand  ; 
And  closer  pressed,  and  dreaming  yet, 

From  the  green  border  of  the  stream — • 
From  the  o'erhanging  parapet 

Sprang  forward  with  a  scream ! 
Then  once  again  the  deep  bell  tolled 
Up  in  the  turret  gray  and  old, 
And,  mingled  with  its  lingering  knell, 

The  echoed  cry,  half  won,  half  lost, 
Startled  the  weary  sentinel, 

Now  slumbering  at  his  post : 
Yet,  wakened  from  his  dreamful  rest, 

He  deemed  the  sound  some  wandering  ghost, 

Haunting  the  caves  of  Sleep, 
For  like  a  bird  upon  its  nest 

The  hushed  air  brooded  o'er  the  deep ; 
And  to  his  drowsy  ear  there  crept 

Only  the  voice  of  the  choral  waves — 
Only  the  drip  of  the  spray  that  wept, 
And  the  ripples  that  sang  through  the  weedy  caves 
Nor  marked  he,  ere  again  he  slept, 
The  muffled  stroke  of  a  hasty  oar, 
A  steed's  quick  tramp  along  the  shore. 
When  morning  came,  a  shallop's  keel 

Grated  the  edge  of  the  pebbly  strand — 
A  maid's  small  foot  and  a  knight's  armed  heel 

Lay  traced  upon  the  sand ! 


13(56 


EDITH   MAY.' 


SUMMER. 

THE  early  Spring  hath  gone :  I  see  her  stand 
Afar  oil',  on  the  hi. Is — white  clouds,  like  doves, 
Yoked  by  the  south  wind  to  her  opal  car, 
And  at  her  feet  a  lion  and  a  lamb 
Couched  side  by  side.    Irresolute  Spring  hath  gone, 
And  Summer  conies,  like  Psyche,  zephyr-borne 
To  her  sweet  land  of  pleasures. 

She  is  here ! 

Amid  the  distant  vales  she  tarried  long; 
But  she  hath  come,  oh,  joy  !  for  I  have  heard 
Her  many  chorded  harp  the  livelong  day 
Sounding  from  plains  and  meadows,  where  of  late 
Rattled  the  hail's  sharp  arrows,  and  where  came 
The  wild  north  wind,  careering  like  a  steed 
Unconscious  of  the  rein.     She  hath  gone  forth 
Into  the  forest,  and  its  pois  d  leaves 
Are  [  latformed  for  the  Zephyr's  dancing  feet. 
Under  its  green  pavi  ions  she  hath  reared 
Most  beautiful  things.  The  Spring's  pale  orphans  lie 
She  tered  upon  her  breast;  the  bird's  loved  song 
At  morn  outsoars  his  pinion,  and  when  waves 
Put  on  Night's  silver  harness,  the  still  air 
Is  musical  with  soft  tones.     She  hath  baptized 
Earth  with  her  joyful  weeping;  she  hath  blessed 
All  that  do  rest  beneath  the  wing  of  Heaven, 
And  all  that  hail  its  smile.     Her  ministry 
Is  typical  of  love ;  she  hath  disdained 
No  gentle  office,  but  doth  bend  to  twine 
The  grape's  light  tendrils,  and  to  pluck  apart 
The  heart-leaves  of  the  rose.     She  doth  not  pass 
Unmindful  the  bruised  vine,  nor  scorn  to  lift 
The  trodden  weed;  and  when  her  lowlier  children 
Faint  by  the  wayside,  like  worn  passengers, 
She  is  a  gentle  mother,  all  ni^ht  long 
Bathing  their  pale  brows  with  her  healing  dews; 
The  hours  are  spendthrifts  of  her  wealth  ;  the  days 
Are  dowered  with  her  beauty. 

Priestess !  queen ! 

Amid  the  ruined  temples  of  the  wood 
She  hath  rebui.t  her  altars,  and  called  back 
The  scattered  choristers,  and  over  aisles 
Where  the  slant  sunshine,  like  a  curious  stranger, 
G  Lie  1  through  arches  and  bare  chairs,  hath  spread 
A  roof  magnificent.     She  hath  awaked 
Her  orac  e,  that,  dumb  and  para'yzed, 
Slept  witi  the  torpid  serpents  of  the  lightning, 
Bidding  his  dread  voice — Nature's  mightiest — 
Speak  mystically  of  all  hidden  things 
To  the  attentive  spirit. 

There  is  laid 

No  knife  upon  her  sacrificial  altar, 
And  from  her  lips  there  comes  no  pealing  triumph. 
But  to  those  crystal  halls,  where  Silence  sits 
Enchanted,  hath  arisen  a  mingled  strain 
Of  music,  delicate  as  the  breath  of  buds; 
A  nd  on  her  shrine  the  virgin  Hours  lay 
Odors  and  exquisite  "dyes,  like  gifts  that  kings 
Send  from  the  spicy  gardens  of  the  East. 


A  FOREST  SCENE. 

I  KXOW  a  forest  vast  and  old — 

A  shade  so  deep,  so  darkly  green, 
That  Morning  sends  her  shaft  of  gold 

In  vain  to  pierce  \*s,  leafy  screen : 
I  know  a  brake  where  sleeps  the  fawn, 

The  soft-eyed  fawn,  through  noon's  repose, 
For  noon,  with  all  the  calm  of  dawn, 

Lies  hushed  beneath  those  dewy  boughs, 

Oh  !  proudly  then  the  forest  kings 

Their  banners  lift  o'er  vale  and  mount; 
And  cool  arid  fresh  the  wild  grass  springs, 

By  lonely  path,  by  sylvan  fount ; 
There,  o'er  the  fair,  leaf-laden  rill 

The  laurel  sheds  her  clustered  bloom, 
And  throned  upon  the  rock-wreathed  hill 

The  rowan  waves  his  scarlet  plume. 

No  huntsman's  call,  no  having  hound, 

Scares  from  his  rest  the  light-limbed  stag , 
But  following  faint  his  airy  bound, 

Glad  Echo  leaps  from  crag  to  crag. 
From  morn  till  eve  the  wood-birds  sing, 

And,  by  the  wi'd  wave's  glittering  play, 
The  pheasant  plumes  her  glossy  wing, 

The  doe  lies  couched  at  close  of  day. 

From  slippery  ledge,  from  moss-grown  rock, 

Dash  the  swift  waters  at  a  bound ; 
And  from  the  foam  that  veils  the  shock, 

Floats  every  wavelet  sparkle-crowned  ; 
Through  brake,  and  dell,  and  lawny  glade, 

O'er  gnarled  root  and  mossy  stone, 
Beneath  the  forest's  emerald  shade 

The  stream  winds  murmuring,  sparkling  on 

Far  floating  o'er  its  limpid  breast 

The  lily  sends  her  petals  fair — 
And,  couched  beneath  her  regal  crest, 

The  balm-flower  scents  the  drowsy  air; 
From  spray  and  vine,  o'er  rocky  ledge, 

Hang  blossoms  wild  of  crimson  dye ; 
And  on  the  curved  and  sanded  edge 

The  pink-lined  shells,  wave-polished,  lie. 

There  wakes  no  tone  of  idle  mirth 

Amid  those  shadows  vast  and  dim, 
But  from  the  gentle  lips  of  Earth 

How  soft  and  low  her  forest  hymn ! 
How  soft  and  low,  where  stirs  the  wind 

Through  the  dark  arches  of  the  wood, 
Where,  gray  with  moss,  the  boughs  entwined 

Hang  whispering  o'er  the  chiming  flood  ! 

When  twilight  skies  look  faintly  down, 

When  noon  lies  hushed  on  leaf  and  spray, 
When  midnight  casts  her  silver  crown 

Before  the  throne  of  godlike  day — 
There,  still,  to  earth's  perpetual  choir, 

The  same  sweet  harmony  is  given : 
For  angels  wake  her  sacred  lyre, 

And  every  chord  is  strung  by  Heaven. 


"EDITH  MAY; 


307 


A  POET'S  LOVE. 

THK  stag  leaps  free  in  the  forest's  heart, 
But  thy  step  is  lighter,  my  love,  my  bride ! 

Light  as  the  quick-footed  breezes  that  part 
The  plumy  ferns  on  the  mountain-side. 

Swift  as  the  zephyrs  that  come  and  pass 

0  er  the  wave'.ess  lake  and  the  billowy  grass; 

1  hear  thy  voice  where  the  white  spray  gleams, 
In  the  one-toned  bells  of  the  rippled  streams, 
In  the  shivering  boughs  of  the  aspen  tree, 

In  the  wind  that  stirreth  the  silvery  pine, 
In  the  shell  that  rnoans  of  the  distant  sea — 

Never  was  voice  so  sweet  as  thine ! 
Never  a  sound  through  the  even  dim 
Came  half  so  soft  as  thy  vesper  hymn. 

I  have  followed  fast  from  the  lark's  low  nest 
Thy  breezy  step  to  the  mountain  crest ; 
The  livelong  day  I  have  wandered  on, 
Till  the  stars  were  up,  the  twilight  gone; 
Ever  unwearied  where  thou  hast  roved, 
Fairest,  and  purest,  and  best  beloved  ! 
I  have  felt  thy  kiss  in  the  leafy  aisle, 

And  thy  breath  astir  in  my  waving  hair, 
I  have  met  the  light  of  thy  haunting  smile 

In  the  deep,  still  woods,  and  the  sunny  air, 
For  thou  lookest  down  from  the  bending  skies, 
And  the  earth  is  glad  with  thy  laughing  eyes. 

When  my  heart  is  sad  and  my  pulse  beats  low, 
Whose  touch  so  light  on  my  burning  brow  ] 
Who  cometh  in  dreams  to  my  midnight  sleep  1 

Who  bendeth  over  my  noonday  rest  ] 
Who  singeth  me  songs  in  the  forest  deep, 

Laying  my  head  to  her  gentle  breast] 
When  life  grows  dim  to  rny  weary  eye, 
When  joy  departeth  and  sorrow  is  nigh, 
Wrho,  'neath  the  track  of  the  stars,  save  thee, 
Speaketh  or  sirigeth  of  hope  to  me  ? 

There  comes  a  time  when  the  morn  shall  rise, 
Yet  charm  no  smile  to  thy  film'd  eyes; 
There  comes  a  time  when  thou  liest  low, 
With  t'.ie  roses  dead  on  thy  frozen  brow, 
With  a  pall  hung  over  thy  trancvd  rest, 
And  the  pu'se  asleep  in  thy  silent  breast. 
There  shall  come  a  dirge  through  the  valleys  drear, 
And  a  white-robed  priest  to  thine  icy  bier : 
His  lip  is  cold,  but  his  dim  eyes  weep,  [deep. 

And  he  maketh  thy  grave  where  the  snow  falls 

Wo  is  me  when  I  watch  and  pray 

For  the  lightest  tread  of  thy  coming  foot, 

F->r  the  softest  note  of  thy  summer  lay, 

For  the  faintest  chord  of  thy  vine-strung  lute ! 

\Vo  is  me  when  the  storms  sweep  by, 

And  the  mocking  winds  are  my  sole  reply  ! 


A  SONG  FOR  AUTUMN. 

KH  the  bird  from  the  tasselled  pine, 
Where  he  sings  like  a  hope  in  a  gloomy  breast ; 
Tread  down  the  blossoms  that  cling  to  the  vine, 

Winnow  the  blooms  from  the  mountain's  crest; 
Let  the  balm-flower  sleep  where  the  small  brooks 

twine, 
And  the  golden-rod  treasure  the  vellow  sunshine. 


Muffle  the  bells  of  the  faint-lipped  waves; 

Let  the  red  leaves  fall ;  let  the  brown  fawn  leap 
Through  the  golden  fern ;  in  the  weedy  caves 

Let  the  snake  coil  up  for  his  winter  sleep. 
Let  the  ringed  snake  coil  where  the  earth  is  drear, 
Like  a  grief  that  grows  cold  as  the  heart  grows  sere. 
Pluck  down  the  rainbow ;  make  steadfast  the  throne 

Of  the  star  that  was  faint  in  the  summer  night ; 
Let  the  white  daughters  of  wave  and  sun 

Weep  as  they  cloister  the  pale,  pale  light;  [rills, 
Let  the  mist-wreaths  brood  o?cr  the  valley-bound 
And  the  sky  trail  its  mantle  far  over  the  hills. 
Plunder  the  wrecks  of  the  forest,  and  blind 

The  waters  that  picture  its  ruinous  dome. 
Wildly,  oh  wildly,  most  sorrowful  wind  ! 

Chant,  like  a  prophet  of  terror  to  come — 
Like  a  Niobe  stricken  with  infinite  dread, 
Leave  the  spirit  of  Beauty  alone  with  her  dead. 
Throne  the  white  Naiad  that  filleth  her  urn 

At  the  fount  of  the  sun  ;  on  the  curtain  of  night 
Paint  wild  Auroras  like  visions  that  burn, 

Rosy  Auroras,  like  dreams  of  delight. 
Mantle  the  earth,  fold  the  robe  on  her  breast, 
While  the  sky,  like  a  seraph,  hangs  over  her  rest. 


A   TRUE  STORY  OF  A  FAWN. 

Dowx  from  a  mountain's  craggy  brow, 

His  homeward  way  the  hunter  took, 
By  a  path  that  wound  to  the  vales  below, 

At  the  side  of  a  leaping  brook. 

Long  and  sore  had  his  journey  been, 
By  the  dust  that  clung  to  his  forest  green, 
By  the  stains  on  his  broidered  moccasin ; 
And  over  his  shoulder  his  rifle  hung, 
And  an  empty  horn  at  his  girdle  swung. 
The  eve  crept  westward :  soft  and  pale 

The  sunset  poured  its  rosy  flood 
Slanting  over  the  wooded  vale ; 

And  the  weary  hunter  stood, 

Looking  down  on  his  cot  below, 
Watching  his  children  there  at  play, 

Watching  the  swing  on  the  chestnut  bough 
Flit  to  and  fro  through  the  twilight  gray, 
Till  the  dove's  nest  rocked  on  its  quivering  spray. 

Faint  and  far,  through  the  forest  wide, 

Came  a  hunter's  voice  and  a  hound's  deep  cry; 
Silence,  that  slept  in  the  rocky  dell, 
Scarcely  woke,  as  her  sentinel 
Cha'lenged  the  sound  from  the  mountain-side — 
Over  the  valleys  the  echo  died; 
And  a  doe  sprang  lightly  by, 
And  cleared  the  path,  and  panting  stood, 
With  her  trembling  fawn,  by  the  leaping  flood. 

She  spanned  the  torrent  at  a  bound, 
And  swiftly  onward,  winged  by  fear, 

Fled,  as  the  bay  of  the  deep-mouthed  hound 
Fell  loudly  on  her  ear ; 

And  pausing  by  the  waters  deep, 
Too  slight  to  stem  their  rapid  flow, 

Too  weak  to  dare  the  perilous  leap, 
The  fawn  sprang  wildly  to  and  tro, 
Watching  the  flight  of  her  lithe-limbed  doe. 


3K8 


FRANCES    A.   AND    METTA   V.   FULLER. 


Now  slie  hung  o'er  the  torrent's  edge, 

Antl  -sobbed  and  wept  as  the  waves  shot  by ; 

Now  she  paused  on  the  rocky  ledge, 
With  head  erect,  and  steadfast  eye, 
Listening  to  the  stag-hound's  cry  : 

Close  from  the  forest  the  deep  bay  rang, 
Close  in  the  forest  the  echoes  died, 

And  over  the  pathway  the  brown  fawn  sprang, 
And  crouched  by  the  hunter's  side. 


Deep  in  the  thickets  the  boughs  unclasped, 
Leaped  apart  with  a  crashing  sound  ; 

Under  the  lithe  vines,  sure  and  fast, 
Came  on  the  exulting  hound — 

Yet,  baffled,  stopped  to  bay  and  glare, 
Far  from  the  torrent's  bound  : 

For  the  weeping  fawn,  still  crouching  there, 
Shrank  not,*hor  fled,  but  closer  pressed, 
And  laid  her  head  on  the  hunter's  breast. 


FRANCES  A.  AND  MEUTA  V.  FULLER. 


Miss  FRANCES  A.  FULLER,  and  her  sister, 
Miss  METTA  VICTORIA  FULLER,  have  recent 
ly  published  many  poems  and  prose  compo 
sitions,  which  have  been  commended  by  the 
critical  editors  of  the  Home  Journal,  as  evin 
cing  "unquestionable  signs  of  true  genius." 


The  latter  has  generally  written  under  the 
signature  of  "Singing  Sybil.'*  The  Misses 
Fuller  are  both  very  young,  the  oldest  having 
been  bom  about  the  year  1826.  They  reside 
in  the  pleasant  village  of  Monroeville,  in  the 
northern  part  of  Ohio. 


FRANCES   A.   FULLER. 


A  RE  VERY. 

NOT  from  Fancy's  land  of  wonders 

Come  the  dreams  that  haunt  my  brain  ; 
But  from  out  the  Past's  dim  chambers 

Glide  along  the  shadowy  train. 
On  each  pale  and  solemn  visage 

Is  some  old  remembrance  pressed, 
Some  dear  memory  that  hath  lingered 

Ever  fadeless  in  my  breast. 

And  as  troop  on  troop  of  visions 

Through  Thought's  silent  halls  defile, 
Like  the  ancient  ghosts  that  wander 

Through  some  lone  cathedral  aisle, 
New-born  fancies  mix  and  mingle 

With  the  old  familiar  throng, 
And  the  Past  and  Present  meeting, 

Swell  the  river-tide  of  song. 

Dreams  of  Present  have  no  power 

And  no  grandeur  like  the  Past: 
Glory  borrows  its  enchantment 

From  the  distance  it  is  cast. 
But  the  Present  is  the  wizard 

That  can  break  Oblivion's  seal, 
And  the  "dead  Past's  dead,"  unburied, 

By  a  magic  word  reveal. 

Life  has  many  hidden  currents, 

Like  the  cave-streams  of  the  earth, 
Flowing  deep  and  strong  in  secret, 

Ne'er  betraying  bourne  or  birth. 
And  the  flood  in  darkness  wandering, 

With  no  flower  upon  its  way, 
Has  its  course  with  richer  treasures 

Than  have  met  the  glare  of  day. 


Light  that  sometimes  shines  upon  it, 

Finds  it  deep,  and  pure,  and  cold ; 
And  the  starry  gleam  reflected 

Leaves  no  bosom  secret  told. 
In  its  deepest  bed  are  hidden 

Treasures  gathered  from  all  life ; 
Pearls  of  thought  and  gold  of  feeling, 

Moveless  in  the  current's  strife. 

In  life's  lively  panorama, 

Looking  for  what  is  to  be, 
We  forget  to  note  the  Present, 

Ere  its  changing  phantoms  flee; 
But  as  clouds  by  tempests  driven 

Scatter  rain-drops  as  they  fly, 
Many  golden  sands  have  fallen 

Where  they  must  for  ever  lie. 

Of  the  dreams  that  throng  around  me 

"  In  the  Spirit's  pictured  hall," 
Know  I  none  whose  shadowy  presence 

I  would  choose  not  to  recall. 
Come  they  to  me  by  the  midnight, 

Come  they  to  me  by  the  day, 
Memory's  thousand  silver  pennons 

Float  above  their  host  alway. 

In  my  heart  the  plaintive  treble 

Of  the  broken  notes  of  song 
Make  no  discord  in  the  music, 

As  it  flows  in  waves  along  : 
For  the  spirit  of  my  dreaming 

Sings  me  all  the  missing  notes; 
And  the  strain,  to  you  so  broken, 

Perfect  to  my  hearing  floats. 


FRANCES    A.   AND    METTA   V.   FULLER. 


369 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FAVORITE 

Do  you  ask  where  she  has  fled — 
Fanny,  with  the  laughing  eyes'! 

Should  I  tell  you  "  She  is  dead," 
You  would  mimic  tears  and  sighs, 
And  affect  a  sad  surprise. 

Yester-week,  when  you  were  here, 
She  was  sitting  on  your  knee, 

Whispering  stories  in  your  car 
With  an  air  of  mystery, 
And  a  roguish  glance  at  me. 

Fanny's  heart  was  always  light — 
Light  and  free  as  plumed  bird  ; 

When  she  glanced  within  our  sight, 
Or  her  merry  voice  we  heard, 
Music  in  our  hearts  was  stirred. 

Do  you  ask  where  Fanny  hides? 
I  will  tell  you  by-and-by ; 

Look  you  where  the  river  glides, 
In  whose  depths  the  shadows  lie 
Mingled  of  the  earth  and  sky : 

Fanny  always  loved  that  spot ; 
There  her  favorite  flowers  grew — 

Violet,  forget-me-not, 

And  the  iris  gold  and  blue, 
With  its  pearly  beads  of  dew. 

Oft  on  the  old  rustic  bridge, 

Made  of  supple  boughs  entwined, 


Hanging  from  each  margin's  ridge 
Like  a  hammock  in  the  wind, 
Fanny  fearlessly  reclined. 

And  she's  told  me,  while  her  eyes 
Filled  with  tears  of  childish  bliss, 

That  she  could  see  paradise 

From  her  rocking  resting-place, 
Mirrored  in  the  river's  face. 

That  she  saw  the  tall  trees  wave, 

Bright-winged  birds  among  their  bowers. 

And  a  river  that  did  lave 

Banks  o'ergrown  with  fairest  flowers, 
And  a  sky  more  blue  than  ours. 

Then  she  asked,  with  such  a  smile 
As  an  angel-face  might  wear, 

If  she  watched  a  long,  long  while, 
She  could  see  her  mother  there, 
Walking  in  the  groves  so  fair. 

When,  to  soothe  the  child,  I  said 
She  should  see  mamma  in  heaven, 

To  that  frail  old  bridge  she  sped 
As  if  wings  to  her  were  given; 
And — but  look!  you  see  'tis  riven! 

Ha  !  you  start — your  looks  are  wild  ' 
Calm  yourself,  old  man,  I  pray ; 

Fanny  was  an  angel-child, 

And  'tis  well  she's  gone  away 
To  her  paradise  so  gay. 


METTA   VICTORIA   FULLER. 


THE  POSTBOY'S  SONG. 

THE  night  is  dark  and  the  way  is  long, 

And  the  clouds  are  flying  fast, 
The  night-wind  sings  a  dreary  song, 

And  the  trees  creak  in  the  blast ; 
The  moon  is  down  in  the  tossing  sea, 

And  the  stars  shed  not  a  ray ; 
The  lightning  flashes  frightfully, 

But  I  must  on  my  way. 

Full  many  a  hundred  times  have  I 

Gone  o'er  it  in  the  dark, 
Till  my  faithful  steeds  can  well  descry 

Each  long  familiar  mark  : 
Withal,  should  peril  come  to-night, 

God  have  us  in  his  care  ! 
For  without  help  and  without  light, 

The  boldest  may  beware. 

Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  Fate, 

Forward  and  back  I  go, 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  their  web  of  wo  ; 
And  a  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  to  all, 
But  the  dark  and  the  light  I  can  not  part, 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 

On,  on  my  steeds  !   the  lightning's  flash 

An  instant  gilds  our  way — 
But  steady  !  by  that  fearful  crash 


The  heavens  seemed  rent  away  ! 
Soho  !  now  comes  the  blast  anew, 

And  a  pelting  flood  of  rain  : 
Steady — a  sea  seems  bursting  through 

A  rift  in  some  upper  main  ! 

'Tis  a  terrible  night — a  dreary  hour- 
Yet  who  will  remember  to  pray, 

That  the  care  of  the  storm-controlling  Power 
May  be  over  the  postboy's  way  ! 

The  wayward  wanderer  from  his  home, 
The  sailor  upon  the  sea, 

Have  prayers  to  bless  them  where  they  roam  — 
Who  thinketh  to  pray  for  me  ? 

But  the  storm  abates — uprides  the  moon 

Like  a  ship  upon  the  sea : 
Now  on,  my  steeds  !  this  glorious  moon 

Of  a  night  so  dark  shall  be 
A  scene  for  us.     Toss  high  your  heads, 

And  cheerily  speed  away  : 
We  shall  startle  the  sleepers  in  their  beds 

Before  the  dawn  of  day  ! 

Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  Fate 

Forward  and  back  I  go, 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  their  web  of  wo — 
And  a  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart. 

And  a  mingled  one  for  all : 
But  the  dark  and  the  light  I  can  not  pait. 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 


FRANCES    A.   AND    METTA 


FULLER. 


MIDNIGHT. 

OXE  by  one,  in  slow  succession, 
The  twelve  hours  have  floated  by, 

Circling,  in  a  still  procession, 

Round  a  glittering  throne  on  nigh; 

Handmaids  to  the  solemn  midnight, 
As  she  walketh  up  the  sky. 

With  a  motion  slow  and  peerless, 
Up  she  glideth  through  the  air, 

Mutely  perfect,  smileless,  tearless, 
Hushed,  and  wonderfu  ly  fair — 

Pausing,  in  her  quiet  splendor, 
Where  her  twelve  attendants  are. 

All  the  stars  their  brows  uncover, 

All  the  breezes  die  away, 
All  the  hours  which  round  her  hover, 

Stand  in  dim  and  mute  array  ; 
For  the  Midnight,  pure  and  placid, 

Knee'eth  on  her  throne  to  pray. 

Grand,  bevond  the  power  of  telling, 
Is  the  Midnight  in  her  prayer — 

All  sublimity  has  dwelling 
On  her  brow,  serenely  fair; 

Brighter  than  the  crown  of  jewels 
Bound  upon  her  raven  hair. 

She  is  asking  for  a  b'essing 

On  the  earth  that  dreams  below — 

And  the  leaves,  their  boughs  caressing, 
Cease  their  waving  to  and  fro, 

And  the  murmuring,  trilling  streamlet 
Seems  to  sing  more  soft  and  slow. 

Her  pure  eyes  are  upward  beaming, 

And  her  pale  hands  folded  lie : 
Oh,  how  beautiful  this  seeming 

Of  the  queen  of  a  1  tbe  sky, 
Meekly  asking,  mid  her  glory, 

From  the  greater  power  on  hign. 
In  her  dim  and  holy  presence 

The  still  world  has  grown  more  still, 
And  soft  silence's  subtle  essence 

Seems  the  breathless  air  to  fill, 
Till  the  hushed  heart  of  creation 

Scarcely  dares  with  awe  to  thrill. 
In  serene,  subduing  sp'endor, 

When  her  time  of  prayer  has  flown, 
Through  the  circle  that  attend  her 

She  descendeth  from  her  throne — 
Gliding  westward  from  the  zenith, 

As  they  follow  one  by  one. 

All  the  stars  their  faces  cover, 

All  the  flowers  droop  with  tears, 
And  the  breezes  round  them  hover, 

With  a  whispered  tale  of  fears, 
As  the  Midnight  queen  retireth, 

And  the  king  of  day  appears. 
Were  I  but  a  star  in  heaven, 

Or  a  little  flower,  alone, 
I  would  worship,  every  even, 

The  sweet  Midnight  on  her  throne; 
l'*it  a  worship  yet  more  perfect 
the  living  spirit  known. 


THE  SILENT  SHIP. 

WE  were  sitting  in  the  starlight, 

By  the  gliding  river's  side — 
He,  a  spirit  pure  and  earnest, 

I,  his  sacred  spirit-bride — 
Sitting  in  the  ho'y  starlight 

Fal  ing  from  the  jewelled  sky, 
O'er  the  water  just  beneath  us, 

Flowing  bright  and  silent  by. 

There  was  something  dim  and  dreamy 

And  so  so'emn  in  the  air, 
And  the  earth  was  lying  sweetly 

In  her  slumber  still  and  fair; 
And  her  breath  had  grown  so  quiel, 

That  a  fold  it  did  not  stir 
Of  the  green  luxurious  curtains, 

Drooping  graceful  over  her. 

Silent  dew  and  silent  starlight, 

Silent  earth  and  silent  sky — 
All  was  hushed  save  one  faint  murmur 

Of  the  river  flowing  by — 
And  one  low,  dear  tone  of  music, 

Whispering  in  my  thrilling  ear 
Words  so  dreamlike  in  their  beauty, 

That  my  soul  could  on'y  hear — • 

Words  so  eloquent  and  gentle, 

That  I  never  may  forget, 
They  are  ringing  in  sweet  melody. 

Within  my  spirit  yet ! 
In  the  dim,  delicious  silence, 

Even  the  water  fell  asleep, 
Looking  bright  and  pure  and  placid, 

And  immeasurably  deep. 

And  subdued  by  this  strange  beauty, 

The  communer  by  my  side 
Hushed  his  spiritual  revealings, 

And  sat  voiceless  by  his  bride. 
How  beautiful  this  stillness — 

This  intense  yet  softened  rest ! 
A  perfect  sense  of  happiness 

Thrilled  deep  within  each  breast. 

When  as  we  watched  the  trembling 

Of  the  starlight  on  the  stream, 
From  out  the  shadow  of  a  curve, 

All  noiseless  as  a  dream, 
All  slowly,  softly,  silently, 

All  spirit-like  and  clear, 
Gliding  through  gently  parting  waves, 

We  saw  a  ship  appear. 

We  hushed  our  breath,  we  hushed  our  hearts: 

No  echo  of  a  sound 
Came  in,  through  the  dim  loveliness, 

The  solemn  air  around. 
We  gazed  upon  the  silent  ship — 

No  sign  of  life  was  there — 
Yet  on  it  glided  gracefully, 

All  tall  and  straight  and  fair ! 

We  saw  the  ripples  break  away 

And  lose  themselves  in  light, 
As  gently  but  unwaveringly 

It  stoie  upon  our  sight ; 


FRANCES  A.  AND  METTA  V.  FULLER. 


371 


We  saw  each  slender  spar  and  mast 

Defined  against  the  sky, 
As  slowly,  softly,  silently, 

It  phantom-like  went  by. 

A  feeling  of  sublimity, 

Which  could  riot  be  expressed, 
Sank  heavy  through  the  breathless  hush 

Upon  each  throbless  breast — 
A  sense  of  something  beautiful, 

Yet  almost  to  be  feared, 
As  slowly,  softly,  silently, 

The  strange  ship  disappeared. 

"  Sybil  !"  was  breathed  upon  my  ear, 

In  one  low,  thrilling  tone, 
As  I  felt  the  clasping  of  a  hand 

Grow  tighter  on  my  own  : 
It  was  enough — within  our  souls 

Each  felt  that  ship  to  be 
An  emblem  of  our  spirit-love, 

Our  mingled  destiny. 

It  seemed  so  like  a  hallowed  spell, 

So  like  a  lovely  dream, 
With  lingering  steps  we  turned  away 

From  the  star-lighted  stream : 

Its  beauty  was  so  strange  and  wild, 

And  inexpressible, 
That  after  many  days  had  passed 

We  found  no  words  to  tell 
Our  thoughts  of  dreamy  loveliness, 

And  the  certainty  it  gave 
That  thus  our  still,  deep  spirit-love 

Should  glide  upon  life's  wave. 

Clouds  now  are  o'er  our  silent  ship, 

And  not  one  starry  gleam 
Falls  softly  through  the  shadows 

That  dim  life's  troubled  stream  ! 
There  are  storms  and  clouds  and  darkness, 

But  I  tremble  not  with  fear, 
For  our  ship  will  glide  unshaken  on 

Till  the  stars  again  appear. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  that  silent  ship 

Within  our  souls  awoke, 
Are  prophecies  too  sure  and  deep 

To  be  by  darkness  broke ; 
And  whether  there  be  storms  or  not, 

Our  spirits  linked  must  be, 
Till  our  bark  is  moored  in  safety 

In  the  far  Eternity. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MY  SONG. 

TELL  me,  have  you  ever  met  her — 

Met  the  spirit  of  my  song  1 
Have  her  wavelike  footsteps  glided 

Through  the  city's  worldly  throng  1 
You  will  know  her  by  a  wreath, 

Woven  all  of  starry  light, 
That  is  lying  mid  her  hair — 

Braided  hair  as  dark  as  night. 

A  short  band  of  radiant  summers 

Is  upon  her  forehead  laid, 
Twining  half  in  golden  sunlight, 

Sleeping  half  in  dreamy  shade  : 
Five  white  fingers  clasp  a  lyre, 

Five  its  silvery  strings  awake, 
And  bewildering  to  the  soul 

Is  the  music  that  they  make. 

Though  her  glances  sleep  like  shadows 

'Neath  each  falling,  silken  lash, 
Yet,  at  aught  that  wakes  resentment, 

They  magnificently  flash. 
Though  you  loved  such  dewy  dream-light, 

And  such  glance  of  sweet  surprise, 
You  could  never  bear  the  scorn 

Of  those  proud  and  brilliant  eyes. 

There 's  a  sweet  and  winning  cunning 

In  her  bright  lip's  crimson  hue, 
And  a  flitting  tint  of  roses 

From  her  soft  cheek  gleaming  through  • 
Do  you  think  that  you  have  met  her  ? — 

She  is  young  and  pure  and  fair, 
And  she  wears  a  wreath  of  starlight 

In  her  braided,  ebon  hair. 

Often  at  her  feet  I'm  sitting, 

With  my  head  upon  her  knee, 
While  she  tells  me  dreams  of  beauty 

In  low  words  of  melody ; 
And,  when  my  unskilful  fingers 

Strive  her  silvery  lyre  to  wake, 
She  will  smooth  my  tresses,  smiling 

At  the  discord  which  I  make. 

But  of  late  days  I  have  missed  her-- 

The  bright  being  of  my  love — 
And  perchance  she's  stolen  pinions 

And  has  floated  up  above. 
Tell  me,  have  you  ever  met  her — 

Met  the  spirit  of  my  song — • 
Have  her  wavelike  footsteps  glided 

Through  the  city's  worldly  throng  ] 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


AMONG  the  younger  American  poets  there 
are  few  whom  we  regard  with  more  inter 
est,  or  whose  writings  inspire  us  with  more 
hopeful  anticipations,  than  these  two  sisters, 
who  were  born  in  a  quiet  and  pleasant  dis 
trict  in  the  vicinity  of  Cincinnati,  where  they 
have  always  resided,  and  most  of  the  time 
in  portionless  and  unprotected  orphanage. 
Their  education  has  been  limited  by  the 
meagre  and  infrequent  advantages  of  an  ob 
scure  country  school,  from  which  they  were 
removed  altogether  at  a  very  early  age  ;  and 
with  neither  books  nor  literary  friends  to 
guide  or  encourage  them,  and  in  circum 
stances  which  would  have  chilled  and  with 
ered  common  natures,  they  "have  been  and 
still  are,  humble"  but  most  acceptable  "  wor 
shippers  in  the  glorious  lernple  of  song." 

ALICE  and  PHCEBE  CAREY  have  but  very  re 
cently  become  known  at  all  in  the  literary 
world.  It  is  but  two  or  three  years  since  I 
first  saw  the  name  of  either  of  them,  in  a 
western  newspaper,  and  of  nearly  a  hundred 
of  the  poems  which  are  now  before  me, 
probably  not  one  has  been  written  more  than 
that  time.  "  We  write,"  observes  Alice  Ca 
rey,  in  a  letter  which  I  regret  that  I  may  not 
copy  here  entire,  that  the  reader's  affection 
might  be  kindled  with  his  admiration,  "  we 
write  with  much  facility,  often  producing 
two  or  three  poems  in  a  day,  and  never  elab 
orate.  We  have  printed,  exclusive  of  our 


early  productions,  some  three  hundred  and 
fifty,  which  those  in  your  possession  fairly 
represent."  And  these  are  the  fruits  of  no 
literary  leisure,  but  the  mere  pastimes  of 
lives  that  are  spent  in  prosaic  duties,  light 
ened  and  made  grateful  only  by  the  presence 
of  the  muse. 

In  the  west,  song  gushes  and  flows,  like 
the  springs  and  rivers,  more  imperially  than 
elsewhere,  as  they  will  believe  who  study 
her  journals,  or  who  read  these  effusions  and 
those  of  Amelia  Welby,  the  authors  of  The 
Wife  of  Leon,  and  other  young  poets,  whose 
minds  seem  to  be  elevated,  by  the  glorious 
nature  there,  into  the  atmosphere  where  all 
thought  takes  a  shape  of  beauty  and  harmo 
ny.  A  delicious  play  of  fancy  distinguishes 
much  of  the  finest  poetry  of  the  sex  ;  but 
Alice  Carey  evinces  in  many  poems  a  genu 
ine  imagination  and  a  creative  energy  that 
challenges  peculiar  praise.  We  have  per 
haps  no  other  author,  so  young,  in  whom  the 
poetical  faculty  is  so  largely  deyeloped.  Her 
sister  writes  with  vigor,  and  a  hopeful  and 
genial  spirit,  and  there  are  many  felicities 
of  expression,  particularly  in  her  later  pieces. 
She  refers  more  than  Alice  to  the  common 
experience,  and  has  perhaps  a  deeper  sym 
pathy  with  that  philosophy  and  those  move 
ments  of  the  day,  which  look  for  a  nearer 
approach  to  equality,  in  culture,  fortune,  and 
social  relations. 


ALICE    CAREY. 

(Born  1820-Died  1871.) 


THE   HANDMAID. 


WHY  rests  a  shadow  on  her  woman's  heart  ? 

In  life's  more  girlish  hours  it  was  not  so ; 
111  hath  she  learned  to  hide  with  harmless  art 

The  soundings  of  the  plummet-line  of  wo  ! 
Oh,  what  a  world  of  tenderness  looks  through 

The  melting  sapphire  of  her  mournful  eyes : 
Less  softly  moist  are  violets  full  of  dew, 

And  the  delicious  color  of  the  skies. 
Serenely  amid  worship  doth  she  move, 

Counting  its  passionate  tenderness  as  dross; 
And  tempering  the  pleadings  of  earth's  love, 

In  the  still,  solemn  shadows  of  the  cross. 
It  is  not  that  her  heart  is  cold  or  vain, 

That  thus  she  moves  through  many  worshippers ; 


No  step  is  lighter  by  the  couch  of  pain, 
No  hand  on  fever's  brow  lies  soft  as  hers. 

From  the  loose  flowing  of  her  amber  hair 
The  summer  flowers  we  long  ago  unknit, 

As  something  between  joyance  and  despair 
Came  in  the  chamber  of  her  soul  to  sit. 

In  her  white  cheek  the  crimson  burns  as  faint 
As  red    doth    in    some   cold   star's    chastened 
beam ; 

The  tender  meekness  of  the  pitying  saint 
Lends  all  her  life  the  beauty  of  a  dream. 

Thus  doth  she  move  among  us  day  by  day, 
Loving  and  loved — but  passion  can  not  move 

The  young  heart  that  hath  wrapped  itself  away 
In  the  soft  mantle  of  a  Savior's  love. 
372 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


.'373 


HYMN  OF  THE  TRUE   MAN. 

PKACK  to  the  True  Man's  ashes  !     Weep  for  those 
Whose  days  in  old  delusions  have  grown  dim  ; 

Such  lives  as  his  are  triumphs,  and  their  close 
An  immortality  :  weep  not  for  him. 

As  feathers  wafted  from  the  eagle's  wings 

Lie  bright  among  the  rocks  they  can  not  warm, 

So  lie  the  flowery  lays  that  Genius  brings, 
In  the  cold  turf  that  wraps  his  honored  form. 

A  practical  rebuker  of  vain  strife, 

Bolder  in  deeds  than  words,  from  beardless  youth 
To  the  white  hairs  of  age,  he  made  his  life 

A  beautiful  consecration  to  the  Truth. 

Virtue,  neglected  long,  and  trampled  down, 
Grew  stronger  in  the  echo  of  his  name ; 

And,  shrinking  self-condemned  beneath  his  frown, 
1  he  cheek  of  harlotry  grew  red  with  shame. 

Serene  with  conscious  peace,  he  strewed  his  way 
With  sweet  humanities,  the  growth  of  love ; 

Shaping  to  right  his  actions,  day  by  day, 
Fai.hful  to  this  world  and  to  that  above. 

The  ghosts  of  blind  belief  and  hideous  crime. 

Of  spirit-broken  loves,  and  hopes  betrayed, 
That  flit  among  the  broken  walls  of  Time, 

Are  by  the  True  Man's  exorcisms  laid. 

Blest  in  his  life,  who  to  himself  is  true, 

And  blest  his  death — for  memory,  when  he  dies, 

Comes,  with  a  lover's  eloquence,  to  renew 
Our  faith  in  manhood's  upward  tendencies. 

Weep  for  the  self-abased,  and  for  the  slave, 

And  for  God's  children  darkened  with  the  smoke 

Of  the  red  altar — not  for  him  whose  grave 
Is  greener  than  the  misletoe  of  the  oak. 


PALESTINE. 


inspiration  !  shadowing  my  heart 
Like  a  sweet  thing  of  beauty  —  could  I  see 
Tabor  and  Carmel  ere  I  hence  depart, 
And  tread  the  quiet  vales  of  Galilee, 
And  look  from  Herrnon  with  its  dew  and  flowers, 
Upon  the  broken  walls  and  mossy  towers, 
O'er  which  the  Son  of  man  in  sadness  wept, 
The  golden  promise  of  my  life  were  kept. 

Alas  !  the  beauteous  cities,  crowned  with  flowers, 

And  robed  with  royalty  !  no  more  in  thee, 
Fretted  with  go  den  pinnacles  and  towers, 

They  sit  in  haughty  beauty  by  the  sea  : 
Shadows  of  rocks,  precipitate  and  dark, 

Re*t  stili  and  heavy  where  they  found  a  grave  ; 
There  glides  no  more  the  humble  fisher's  bark, 

And  the  wild  heron  drinks  not  of  the  wave. 
But  still  the  silvery  willows  fringe  the  rills, 

Judea's  shepherd  watches  still  his  fold; 
And  round  about  Jerusalem  the  hills 

Stand  in  their  solemn  grandeur  as  of  old  ; 
And  Sharon's  roses  still  as  sweetly  bloom 

As  when  the  apostles,  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Rolled  back  the  shadows  from  the  dreary  tomb, 

And  brought  to  light  Life's  Immortality. 


|  The  East  has  lain  down  many  a  beauteous  bride, 

In  the  dim  silence  of  the  sepulchre, 
Whose  names  are  shrined  in  storv,  but  beside 

Their  lives  no  sign  to  tell  they  ever  were. 
The  imperial  fortresses  of  old  renown —     [now  ' 

Rome,  Carthage,  Thebes — alas  !  where  are  they 
In  the  dim  distance  lost  and  crumbled  down ; 

The  glory  that  was  of  them,  from  her  brow 
Took  of  the  wreath  in  centuries  gone  by, 
And  walked  the  Path  of  Shadows  silently. 

But  Palestine  !  what  hopes  are  born  of  thee — 

I  can  not  paint  their  beauty,  hopes  that  rise, 
Sinking  this  perishing  mortality 

To  the  bright,  deathless  glories  of  the  skies  : 
Where  the  sweet  Babe  of  Bethlehem  was  born — 

Love's  mission  finished  there  in  Calvary's  gloom  4 
There  blazed  the  glories  of  the  rising  morn, 

And  Death  lay  gasping  there  at  Jesus'  tomb ! 


OLD  STORIES. 

No  beautiful  star  will  twinkle 

To-night  through  my  window-pane, 

As  I  list  to  the  mournful  falling 
Of  the  leaves  and  the  autumn  rain. 

High  up  in  his  leafy  covert 

The  squirrel  a  shelter  hath  ; 
And  the  tall  grass  hides  the  rabbit, 

Asleep  in  the  churchyard  path. 

On  the  hills  is  a  voice  of  wailing 
For  the  pale  dead  flowers  again, 

That  sounds  like  the  heavy  trailing 
Of  robes  in  a  funeral  train. 

Oh,  if  there  were  one  who  loved  me — 
A  kindly  and  gray-haired  sire, 

To  sit  and  rehearse  old  stories 
To-night  by  my  cabin  fire  : 

The  winds  as  they  would  might  rattle 
The  boughs  of  the  ancient  trees — 

In  the  tale  of  a  stirring  battle 
My  heart  would  forget  all  these. 

Or  if  by  the  embers  dying 

We  talked  of  the  past,  the  while, 

I  should  see  bright  spirits  flying 
From  the  pyramids  and  the  Nile. 

Echoes  from  harps  long  silent 

Would  troop  through  the  aisles  of  time, 
And  rest  on  the  soul  like  sunshine, 

If  we  talked  of  the  bards  sublime. 

But  hark  !  did  a  phantom  call  me, 
Or  was  it  the  wind  went  by  ? 

Wild  are  mv  thoughts  and  restless, 
But  they  have  no  power  to  fly. 

In  place  of  the  cricket  humming, 
And  the  moth  by  the  candle's  light, 

I  hear  but  the  deathwatch  drumming 
I've  heard  it  the  livelong  night. 

Oh  for  a  friend  who  loved  me — 

Oh  for  a  gray-haired  sire, 
To  sit  with  a  quaint  old  story, 

To-night  by  my  cabin  fire. 


3?4 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 

AMONG  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  (in  Memory's  wall, 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all  : 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mist  etoe  ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  be'.ow  ; 
Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies, 

That  lead  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge  ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  up' and 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 
I  once  had  a  little  brother, 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  as'eep: 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  litt'e  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 
Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face  : 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


THE  TWO  MISSIONARIES. 

Ix  the  pyramid's  heavy  shadows, 

Aiitl  by  the  Nile's  deep  flood, 
They  leaned  on  the  arm  of  Jesus, 

And  preached  to  the  multitude: 
Where  only  the  ostrich  and  parrot 

Went  by  on  the  burning  sands, 
They  bni'ded  to  God  an  altar, 

Lifting  up  holy  hands. 
But  even  while  kneeling  lowly 

At  the  foot  of  the  cross  to  pray, 
Eternity's  shadows  slowly 

Stole  over  their  pilgrim  way  : 
And  one,  with  the  journey  weary, 

And  faint  with  the  spirit's  strife, 
Fell  sweetly  asleep  in  Jesus, 

Hard  by  the  gates  of  life. 
Oh,  not  in  Gethsemane's  garden, 

And  not  by  Genesareth's  wave, 
The  light,  like  a  golden  mantle, 

O'erspreadeth  his  lowly  grave  ; 


But  the  bird  of  the  burning  desert 

Goes  by  with  a  noiseless  tread, 
And  the  tent  of  the  rest'. ess  Arab 

Is  silently  near  him  spread. 
Oh,  could  we  remember  only, 

Who  shrink  from  the  lightest  ill, 
His  sorrows,  who,  bruised  and  lonely, 

Wrought  on  in  the  vineyard  still — 
Surely  the  tale  of  sorrow 

Would  fall  on  the  mourner's  breast, 
Hushing,  like  oil  on  the  waters, 

The  troubled  wave  to  rest. 


VISIONS  OF  LIGHT. 

THE  moon  is  rising  in  beauty, 

The  sky  is  solemn  and  bright, 
And  the  waters  are  singing  like  lovers 

That  walk  in  the  valleys  at  night. 
Like  the  towers  of  an  ancient  city, 

That  darken  against  the  sky, 
Seems  the  blue 'mist  of  the  river 

O'er  the  hill-tops  far  and  high. 
I  see  through  the  gathering  darkness 

The  spire  of  the  village  church, 
And  the  pale  white  tombs,  half  hidden 

By  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch. 
Vain  is  the  golden  drifting 

Of  morning  light  on  the  hill  ; 
No  white  hands  open  the  windows 

Of  those  chambers  low  and  still. 
But  their  dwellers  were  all  my  kindred, 

Whatever  their  lives  might  be, 
And  their  sufferings  and  achievements 

Have  recorded  lessons  for  me. 
Not  one  of  the  countless  voyagers 

Of  life's  mysterious  main, 
Has  laid  down  his  burden  of  sorrows, 

Who  hath  lived  and  loved  in  vain. 
From  the  bards  of  the  elder  ages 

Fragments  of  song  float  by, 
Like  flowers  in  the  streams  of  summer, 

Or  stars  in  the  midnight  sky. 
Some  plumes  in  the  dust  are  scattered, 

Where  the  eagles  of  Persia  flew, 
And  wisdom  is  reaped  from  the  furrows 

The  plough  of  the  Roman  drew. 
From  the  white  tents  of  the  crusaders 

The  phantoms  of  glory  are  gone, 
But  the  zeal  of  the  barefooted  hermit 

In  humanity's  heart  lives  on. 
Oh,  sweet  as  the  bell  of  the  sabbath 

In  the  tower  of  the  village  church, 
Or  the  fall  of  the  yellow  moonbeams 

In  the  tasselled  willow  and  birch — • 
Comes  a  thought  of  the  blessed  issues 

That  shall  follow  our  social  strife, 
When  the  spirit  of  love  maketh  perfect 

The  beautiful  mission  of  life  : 
For  visions  of  light  are  gathered 

In  the  sunshine  of  flowery  nooks, 
Like  the  shades  of  the  ghostly  Fathers 

In  their  twilight  cells  of  books  ! 


ALICE    AND    PHOEBE    CAREY. 


375 


HELVA. 

HKR  white  hands  full  of  mountain  flowers, 
Down  by  the  rough  rocks  and  the  sea, 

Helva.  the  raven-tressed,  for  hours 
Hath  gazed  forth  earnestly. 

Unconscious  that  the  salt  spray  flecks 
The  ebon  beauty  of  her  hair — 

What  vision  is  it  she  expects  ] 
So  meekly  lingering  there. 

Is  it  to  see  the  sea  fog  lift 

From  the  broad  bases  of  the  hills, 

Or  the  red  moonlight's  golden  drift, 
That  her  soft  bosom  thrills  ] 

Or  yet  to  see  the  starrv  hours 

Their  silver  network  round  her  throw, 
That  'neath  the  white  hands,  full  of  flowers, 

Her  heart  heaves  to  and  fro  1 
Why  strains  so  far  the  aching  eye  1 

Kind  nature  wears  to-night  no  frown, 
'  And  the  still  beauty  of  the  sky 

Keeps  the  mad  ocean  down. 
Why  are  those  damp  and  heavy  locks 

Put  back,  the  faintest  sound  to  win  1 
Ah  !  where  the  beacon  lights  the  rocks, 

A  ship  is  riding  in  ! 

Who  conies  forth  to  the  vessel's  side, 

Leaning  upon  the  manly  arm 
Of  one  who  wraps  with  tender  pride 

The  mantle  round  her  form  ] 

Oh  Helva,  watcher  of  lone  hours, 
May  God  in  mercy  give  thee  aid ! 

Thy  cheek  is  whiter  than  thy  flowers — 
Thy  woman's  heart  betrayed  ! 

THE   TIME   TO  BE. 

I  SIT  where  the  leaves  of  the  maple, 

And  the  gnarled  and  knotted  gum, 
Are  circling  and  drifting  around  me, 

And  think  of  the  time  to  come. 
For  the  human  heart  is  the  mirror 

Of  the  things  that  are  near  and  far; 
Like  the  wave  that  reflects  in  its  bosom 

The  flower  and  the  distant  star. 
And  beautiful  to  my  vision 

Is  the  time  it  prophetically  sees, 
As  was  once  to  the  monarch  of  Persia 

The  gem  of  the  Cycladrs. 
As  change  is  the  order  of  Nature, 

And  beauty  springs  from  decay, 
So  in  its  destined  season 

The  false  for  the  true  makes  way. 
The  darkening  power  of  evil, 

And  discordant  jars  and  crime, 
Are  the  cry  preparing  the  wilderness 

For  the  flower  and  the  harvest-time. 

Though  doublings  and  weak  misgivings 

May  rise  to  the  soul's  alarm, 
Like  the  ghosts  of  the  heretic  burners, 

In  the  province  of  bold  Reform. 


And  now,  as  ihe  summer  is  fading, 
And  the  cold  c'ouds  full  of  rain, 

And  the  net  in  the  fields  of  stubble 
And  the  briars,  is  spread  in  vain — 

I  catch,  through  the  mists  of  life's  river, 

A  glimpse  of  the  time  to  be, 
When  the  chain  from  the  bondman  rusted 

Shall  leave  him  erect  and  free — 

On  the  solid  and  broad  foundation, 

A  common  humanity's  riglrt, 
To  cover  his  branded  shoulder 

With  the  garment  of  love  from  sight. 

TO  LUCY. 

THE  leaves  are  rustling  mournfully, 

The  yellow  leaves  and  sere ; 
For  Winter  with  his  naked  arms 

And  chilling  breath  is  here: 
The  rills  that  all  the  autumn-time 

Went  singing  to  the  sea, 
Are  waiting  in  their  icy  chains 

For  Spring  to  set  them  free  ; 
No  bird  is  heard  the  live-long  day 

Upon  its  mates  to  call, 
And  coldly  and  capriciously 

The  slanting  sunbeams  fall. 

There  is  a  shadow  on  my  heart 

I  can  not  fling  aside — 
Sweet  sister  of  my  soul,  with  thee 

Hope's  brightest  roses  died  ! 
I'm  thinking  of  the  pleasant  hours 

That  vanished  long  ago, 
When  summer  was  the  goldenest, 

And  all  things  caught  its  glow : 
I'm  thinking  where  the  violets 

In  fragrant  beauty  lay, 
Of  the  buttercups  and  primroses 

That  blossomed  in  our  way. 

I  see  the  willow,  and  the  spring 

O'ergrown  with  purple  sedge ; 
The  lilies  and  the  scarlet  pinks 

That  grew  along  the  hedge ; 
The  meadow,  where  the  elm  tree  threxv 

Its  shadows  dark  and  wide, 
And,  sister,  flowers  in  beauty  grew 

And  perished  side  by  side : 
O'er  the  accustomed  vale  arid  hill 

Now  Winter's  robe  is  spread, 
The  beetle  and  the  moth  are  still, 

And  all  the  flowers  are  dead. 

I  mourn  for  thee,  sweet  sister, 

When  the  wintry  hours  are  here, 
But  when  the  days  grow  long  and  bright. 

And  skies  are  blue  and  clear — 
Oh,  when  the  Summer's  banquet 

Among  the  flowers  is  spread, 
My  spirit  is  most  sorrowful 

That  thou  art  with  the  dead  : 
We  laid  thee  in  thy  narrow  bed, 

When  autumn  winds  were  high — 
Thy  life  had  taught  us  how  to  live. 

And  then  we  learned  to  die. 


376 


ALICE    AND    PHGEBE    CAREY. 


A  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARY'S. 

ONE  night,  when  bitterer  winds  than  ours, 
On  hill-sides  and  in  valleys  low, 

Built  sepulchres  for  the  dead  flowers, 
And  buried  them  in  sheets  of  snow — 

When  over  ledges,  dark  and  cold, 

The  sweet  moon,  rising  high  and  higher, 

Tipped  with  a  dimly  burning  god 
St.  Mary's  old  cathedral  spire. 

The  lamp  of  the  confessional, 

(God  grant  it  did  not  burn  in  vain,) 

After  the  solemn  midnight  bell, 

Streamed  redly  through  the  lattice-pane. 

And  kneeling  at  the  father's  feet, 
Whose  long  and  venerable  hairs, 

Now  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 

Could  not  have  numbered  half  his  prayers, 

Was  one — I  can  not  picture  true 
The  cherub  beauty  of  his  guise ; 

Lilies,  and  waves  of  deepest  blue, 

WTere  something  like  his  hands  and  eyes ! 

Like  yellow  mosses  on  the  rocks, 

Dashed  with  the  ocean's  milk-white  spray, 
The  softness  of  his  golden  looks 

About  his  neck  and  forehead  lay. 

Father,  thy  tresses,  silver-sleet. 
Ne'er  swept  above  a  form  so  fair ; 

Surely  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet 
Have  been  a  rosary  of  prayer  ! 

We  know  not,  and  we  can  not  know, 
Why  swam  those  rneek  b.ue  eyes  with  tears ; 

But  surely  guilt,  or  guiltless  wo, 

Had  bowed  him  earthward  more  than  years. 

All  the  long  summer  that  was  gone, 
A  cottage  maid,  the  village  pride, 

Fainter  and  fainter  smiles  had  worn, 
And  on  that  very  night  she  died  ! 

As  soft  the  yellow  moonbeams  streamed 

Across  her  bosom,  snowy  fair, 
She  said  (the  watchers  thought  she  dreamed) 

'T  is  like  the  shadow  of  his  hair  ! 

And  they  could  hear,  who  nearest  came, 
The  cross  to  sign  and  hope  to  lend, 

The  murmur  of  another  name 

Than  that  of  mother,  brother,  friend. 

An  h/nir — and  St.  Mary's  spires, 

Like  spikes  of  flame,  no  longer  glow — 

No  longer  the  confessional  fires 
Shine  redly  on  the  drifted  snow. 

An  hour — and  the  saints  had  claimed 
That  cottage  maid,  the  village  pride ; 

And  he,  whose  name  in  death  she  named, 
Was  darkly  weeping  by  her  hide. 

White  as  a  spray-wreath  lay  her  brow 
Beneath  the  midnight  of  her  hair, 

But  all  those  passionate  kisses  now 
Wake  not  the  faintest  crimson  there  ! 

Pride,  honor,  manhood,  can  not  check 
The  vehemence  of  love's  despair — 


JNo  soft  hand  steals  about  his  neck, 
Or  bathes  its  beauty  in  his  hair  ! 

Almost  upon  the  cabin  walls, 

Wherein  the  sweet  young  maiden  died, 
The  shadow  of  a  castle  falls, 

Where  for  her  young  lord  waits  a  bride  ! 

With  clear  blue  eyes,  and  fair  brown  curls, 
In  her  high  turret  still  she  sits ; 

But  ah,  whaf  scorn  her  ripe  lip  curls — 
What  shadow  to  her  bosom  flits  ! 

From  that  low  cabin  tapers  flash, 

And,  by  the  shimmering  light  they  spread, 
She  sees  beneath  its  mountain  ash, 

Leafless,  but  all  with  berries  red, 

Impatient  of  the  unclasped  rein, 

A  courser  that  should  not  be  there — 

The  silver  whiteness  of  his  mane 

Streaming  like  moonlight  on  the  air  ! 

Oh,  Love  !  thou  art  avenged  too  well — 
The  young  heart,  broken  and  betrayed, 

Where  thou  didst  meekly,  sweetly  dwell, 
For  all  its  sufferings  is  repaid. 

Not  the  proud  beauty,  nor  the  frown 
Of  her  who  shares  the  living  years, 

From  her  the  winding-sheet  wraps  down, 
Can  ever  buy  away  the  tears  ! 


WATCHING. 

TUT  smile  is  sad,  Elella, 

Too  sad  for  thee  to  wear, 
For  scarcely  have  we  yet  untwined 

The  rosebuds  from  thy  hair  ! 
So,  dear  one,  hush  thy  sobbing, 

And  let  thy  tears  be  dried — 
Methinks  thou  shouldst  be  happier, 

Three  little  months  a  bride  ! 
Hark  !  how  the  winds  are  heaping 

The  snow-drifts  cold  and  white — 
The  clouds  like  spectres  cross  the  sky — 

Oh,  what  a  lonesome  night ! 
The  hour  grows  late  and  later, 

I  hear  the  midnight  chime  : 
Thy  heart's  fond  keeper,  where  is  he  ] 

WThy  comes  he  not  ? — 'tis  time  ! 
Here  make  my  heart  thy  pillow, 

And,  if  the  hours  seem  long, 
I'll  while  them  with  a  legend  wild, 

Or  fragment  of  old  song — 
Or  read,  if  that  will  soothe  thee, 

Some  poet's  pleasant  rhymes  : 
Oh,  I  have  watched  and  waited  thus, 

I  can  not  tell  the  times  ! 
Hush,  hark  !  across  the  neighboring  hills 

I  hear  the  watchdog  bay — 
Stir  up  the  fire,  and  trim  the  lamp, 

I'm  sure  he's  on  the  way  ! 
Could  that  have  only  been  the  winds, 

So  like  a  footstep  near  ] 
No,  smile  Elella,  smile  again, 

He 's  coming  home — he 's  here  ! 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


377 


AN   EVENING  TALE. 

COME,  thou  of  the  drooping  eyelid, 

And  cheek  that  is  meekly  pale, 
Give  over  thy  pensive  musing 

And  list  to  a  lonesome  tale  : 
For  hearts  that  are  torn  and  bleeding, 

Or  heavy  as  thine,  and  lone, 
May  find  in  another's  sorrow 

Forgetful  ness  of  their  own  : 
So  heap  on  the  blazing  fagots 

And  trim  the  lamp  anew, 
And  I'll  tell  you  a  mournful  story — 

I  would  that  it  were  not  true  ! 

The  bright  red  clouds  of  the  sunset 

On  the  tops  of  the  mountains  lay, 
And  many  and  goodly  vessels 

Were  anchored  below  in  the  bay — 
We  saw  the  walls  of  the  city, 

And  could  hear  its  vexing  din, 
As  our  mules,  with  their  nostrils  smoking, 

Drew  up  at  a  wayside  inn  : 
The  hearth  was  ample  and  blazing, 

For  the  night  was  something  chill, 
But  my  heart,  though  I  knew  not  wherefore, 

Sank  down  with  a  sense  of  ill. 

That  night  I  stood  on  the  terrace 

O'erlooking  a  blossomy  vale, 
And  the  gray  old  walls  of  a  convent 

That  loomed  in  the  moonlight  pale — 
Till  the  lamp  of  the  sweet  Madonna 

Grew  faint  as  if  burning  low, 
And  the  midnight  bell  in  the  turret 

Swung  heavily  to  and  fro — 
When  just  as  its  last  sweet  music 

Came  back  from  the  echoing  hill, 
And  the  hymn  of  the  ghostly  friars 

In  the  fretted  aisle  grew  still — 

On  a  rude  bench,  hid  among  olives, 

I  noted  a  maiden  fair, 
Alone,  with  the  night  wind  playing 

In  the  locks  of  her  raven  hair  : 
Thrice  came  the  sound  of  her  sighing, 

And  thrice  were  her  red  lips  pressed 
With  wild  and  passionate  fervor 

To  the  cross  that  hung  on  her  breast : 
But  her  bearing  was  not  the  bearing 

That  to  saintly  soul  belongs, 
Albeit  she  chanted  the  fragments 

Of  holy  and  beautiful  songs. 

'T  was  the  half  hour  after  the  midnight, 

And,  so  like  that  it  might  be  now, 
The  full  moon  was  meekly  climbing 

Over  the  mountain's  brow — 
When  the  step  of  the  singing  maiden 

In  the  corridor  lightly  trod, 
And  I  presently  saw  her  kneeling 

In  prayer  to  the  mother  of  God  ! 
On  the  leaves  of  her  golden  missal 

Darkly  her  loose  locks  lay, 
As  she  cried,  "  Forgive  me,  sweet  Virgin, 

And  mother  of  Jesus,  I  pray  !" 

When  the  music  was  softly  melting 
From  the  eloquent  lips  of  morn, 


Within  the  walls  of  the  convent 
Those  beautiful  locks  were  shorn : 

And  wherefore  the  veil  was  taken 
Was  never  revealed  by  time, 

But  Charity  sweetly  hopeth 
For  sorrow,  and  not  for  crime. 


GEORGE  BURROUGHS* 

OH,  dark  as  the  creeping  of  shadows, 

At  night,  o'er  the  burial  hill, 
When  the  pulse  in  the  stony  artery 

Of  the  bosom  of  earth  is  still — 

When  the  sky,  through  its  frosty  curtain, 
Shows  the  glitter  of  many  a  lamp, 

Burning  in  brightness  and  stillness, 
Like  the  fire  of  a  far-off  camp — • 

Must  have  been  the  thoughts  of  the  martyr, 
Of  the  jeers  and  the  taunting  scorn, 

And  the  cunning  trap  of  the  gallows, 
That  waited  his  feet  at  morn — 

As  down  in  his  lonesome  dungeon 
The  hours  trooped  silent  and  slow, 

Like  sentinels  through  the  thick  darkness, 
Hard  by  the  tents  of  the  foe. 

Could  he  hear  the  voices  of  music 

That  thrilled  that  deep  heart  of  gloom  ] 

Or  see  the  pale  and  still  beauty 
That  sweetly  leaned  by  the  tomb  "? 

Could  he  note  through  the  cold  and  thin  shadow 
That  swept  through  his  prison  bars, 

The  white  hand  of  the  pure  seraph 
That  beckoned  him  to  the  stars ! 

As,  roused  to  the  stony  rattle 

Of  the  hangman's  open  cart, 
He  smothered,  till  only  God  heard  it — 

The  piercing  cry  of  his  heart. 

Can  Christ's  mercy  wash  back  to  whiteness 

The  feet  his  raiment  that  trod, 
Whose  soul,  from  that  dark  persecution, 

Went  up  to  the  bosom  of  God  ] 

Hath  he  forgiveness,  who  shouted, 

"  Righteously  do  ye,  and  well, 
To  quench  in  blood,  hot  and  smoking, 

This  firebrand,  which  is  of  hell  1" 

Over  fields  moistened  thus  darkly 
Wave  harvests  of  tolerance  now ; 

But  the  tombstones  of  the  old  martyrs 
Sharpened  the  share  of  the  plough  ! 


*  No  purer  hearts  or  more  heroic  spirits  ever  perished 
at  the  stake,  than  some  crushed  and  broken  on  the  wheel 
of  bigotry  during  the  Puritan  Reign  of  Terror.  Among 
thern^  I  would  instance  the  Rev.  George  Burroughs,  who 
prayed  with  and  for  his  repentant  accuser  the  day  previ 
ous  to  his  execution,  and  whose  conviction  demonstrated 
the  righteousness  of  God  to  the  Rev.  Cotton  Mather.  Af 
ter  his  execution,  to  which  he  was  conveyed  in  an  open 
cart,  Mr.  Burroughs  was  stripped  of  his  clothing,  dragged 
by  the  hangman's  rope  to  a  rocky  excavation,  in  which, 
beinir  thrown  and  trampled  on  by  the  mob.  he  was 
left  partly  uncovered. 


f78 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


LIGHTS  OF  GENIUS. 

UPHEAVING  pillars,  on  whose  tops 

The  white  stars  rest  like  capitals, 
Whence  every  living  spark  that  drops 

Kindles  and  blazes  as  it  falls ! 
And  if  the  arch-fiend  rise  to  pluck, 

Or  stoop  to  crush  their  beauty  down, 
A  thousand  other  sparks  are  struck, 

That  Glory  settles  in  her  crown. 
The  huge  ship,  with  its  brassy  share, 

Ploughs  the  blue  sea  to  speed  their  course, 
And  veins  of  iron  cleave  the  air, 

To  waft  them  from  their  burning  source ! 
All,  from  the  insect's  tiny  wings, 

And  the  small  drop  of  morning  dew, 
To  the  wide  universe  of  things, 

The  light  is  shining,  burning  through. 
Too  deep  for  our  poor  thoughts  to  gauge 

Lie  their  clear  sources,  bright  as  truth, 
Whence  flows  upon  the  locks  of  age 

The  beauty  of  eternal  youth. 
Think,  oh  my  faltering  brother !  think, 

If  thou  wilt  try,  if  thou  hast  tried, 
By  all  the  lights  thou  hast,  to  sink 

The  shaft  of  an  immortal  tide  ! 

DEATH'S  FERRYMAN. 

BOATMAX,  thrice  I've  called  thee  o'er, 
Waiting  on  life's  solemn  shore, 
Tracing,  in  the  silver  sand, 
Letters  till  thy  boat  should  land. 
Drifting  out  alone  with  thee, 
Toward  the  clime  I  can  not  see, 
Read  to  me  the  strange  device 
Graven  on  thy  wand  of  ice. 
Push  the  curls  of  golden  hue 
From  thy  eyes  of  starlit  dew, 
And  behold  me  where  I  stand, 
Beckoning  thy  boat  to  land. 
Where  the  river  mist,  so  pale, 
Trembles  like  a  bridal  veil, 
O'er  yon  lowly  drooping  tree, 
One  that  loves  me  waits  for  me. 
Hear,  sweet  boatman,  hear  my  call ! 
Last  year,  with  the  leaflet's  fall, 
Resting  her  pale  hand  in  mine, 
Ci.ossed  she  in  that  boat  of  thine. 
When  the  corn  shall  cease  to  grow, 
And  the  ryefield's  silver  flow 
At  the  reaper's  feet  is  laid, 
Crossing,  spake  the  lovely  maid : 
Dearest  love,  another  year 

Thou  shall  meet  this  boatman  here 

The  white  fingers  of  despair 
Playiig  with  his  golden  hair. 
From  this  silver-sanded  shore, 
Beckon  him  to  row  thee  o'er ; 
Where  yon  solemn  shadows  be, 
I  shall  wait  thee — come  and  see  ! 
There  !  the  white  sails  float  and  flow, 
One  in  heaven  and  one  below ; 
And  I  hear  a  low  voice  cry, 
Ferryman  of  Death  am  I. 


SAILOR'S  SONG. 

HA  !  the  bird  has  fled  my  arrow — 

Though  the  sunshine  of  its  plumes, 
Like  the  summer  dew  is  dropping, 

On  its  native  valley  blooms; 
In  the  shadow  of  its  parting  wing 

Shall  I  sit  down  and  pine, 
That  it  pours  its  song  of  beauty 
On  another  heart  than  mine  ! 
From  thy  neck,  my  trusty  charger, 

I  will  strip  away  the  rein, 
But  to  crop  the  flowery  prairie 

May  it  never  bend  again  ! 
With  thy  hoof  of  flinty  silver, 

And  thy  blue  eye  shining  bright, 
Through  the  red  mists  of  the  morning 

Speed  like  a  beam  of  light. 
I'm  sick  of  the  dull  landsmen — 

'Tis  time,  my  lads,  that  we 
Were  crowding  on  the  canvass, 

And  standing  out  to  sea  ! 
Ever  making  from  the  headlands 

Where  the  wrecker's  beacons  ride, 
Red  and  deadly,  like  the  shadow 

Of  the  lion's  brinded  hide  ; 
And  hugging  close  the  islands, 

That  are  belted  with  the  blue, 
Where  a  thousand  birds  are  singing 

In  the  dells  of  light  and  dew ; 
Time  unto  our  songs  the  billows 

W7ith  their  dimpled  hands  shall  keep, 
As  we're  ploughing  the  white  furrows 

In  the  bosom  of  the  deep! 
In  watching  the  light  flashing 

Like  live  sparks  from  our  prow, 
With  but  the  bitter  kisses 

Of  the  cold  surf  on  my  brow, 
May  my  voyage  at  last  be  ended, 

And  my  sleep  be  in  the  tide, 
With  the  sea-waves  clasped  around  me, 
Like  the  white  arms  of  a  bride ! 

TO  THE   EVENING  ZEPHYR. 

I  SIT  where  the  wild-bee  is  humming, 

And  listen  in  vain  for  thy  song; 
I've  waited  before  for  thy  coming, 

But  never,  oh,  never  so  long! 
How  oft  with  the  blue  sky  above  us, 

And  waves  breaking  light  on  the  shore, 
Thou,  knowing  they  wou'd  not  reprove  us, 

Hast  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'ei  ! .... 
Alone  in  the  gathering  shadows, 

Still  waiting,  sweet  Zephyr,  for  thee, 
I  look  for  the  waves  of  the  meadows, 

And  dimples  to  dot  the  blue  sea. 
The  blossoms  that  waited  to  greet  thee 

With  heat  of  the  noontide  oppressed, 
Now  flutter  so  light  to  meet  thee, 

Thou'rt  coming,  I  know,  from  the  west 
Alas!  if  thou  findest  me  pouting, 

'Tis  only  my  love  that  alarms; 
Forgive,  then,  I  pray  thee,  my  doubting, 

And  take  me  once  more  to  thine  arms! 


ALICE    AND    PHOEBE    CAREY. 


MUSINGS  BY   THREE  GRAVES. 

THK  dappled  clouds  are  broken  :  bright  and  clear 
Comes  up  the  broad  and  glorious  star  of  day ; 

And  night,  the  shadowy,  like  a  hunted  deer, 
Flies  from  the  close  pursuer  fast  away. 

Now  on  my  ear  a  murmur  faintly  swells, 
And  now  it  gathers  louder  and  more  deep, 

As  the  sweet  music  of  the  village  bells 
Rouses  the  drowsy  rustic  from  his  sleep. 

Hark  !  there 's  a  footstep  startling  up  the  birds, 
And  now  as  softly  steals  the  breeze  along, 

I  hear  the  sound,  and  almost  catch  the  words 
Of  the  sweet  fragment  of  a  pensive  song. 

And  yonder,  in  the  clover-scented  vale — 
Her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  and  simply  clad — 

I  see  the  milkmaid  with  her  flowing  pail : 
Alas  !  what  is  it  makes  her  song  so  sad  ! 

In  the  seclusion  of  these  lowly  dells, 

What  mournful  lesson  has  her  bosom  learned  1 
Is  it  the  memory  of  sad  farewells, 

Or  faithless  love,  or  friendship  unreturned  1 

Methinks  yon  sunburnt  swain,  with  knotted  thong, 
And  rye-straw  hat  slouched  careless  on  his  brow, 

Whistled  more  loudly,  passing  her  along, 
To  yoke  his  patient  oxen  to  the  plough. 

'Tis  all  in  vain  :  she  heeds  not,  if  she  hears, 
And,  sadly  musing,  separate  ways  they  go  : 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  how  many  bitter  tears 
Are  mingled  in  the  brightest  fount  below  ] 

Poor,  simple  tenant  of  another's  lands, 

Vexed  with  no  dream  of  heraldic  renown ; 

No  more  the  earnings  of  his  sinewy  hands 
Shall  make  his  spirit  like  the  thistle's  down. 

Smile  not,  recipient  of  a  happier  fate, 

And  haply  better  formed  life's  ills  to  bear, 

If  e'er  you  pause  to  read  the  name  and  date 
Of  one  who  died  the  victim  of  despair. 

Now  morn  is  fully  up ;  and  while  the  dew 
From  off  her  golden  locks  is  brightly  shed, 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  solemn  yew 
I  sit  alone  and  muse  above  the  dead. 

Not  with  the  blackbird  whistling  in  the  brake, 
Nor  when  the  rabbit  lightly  near  them  treads, 

Shall  they  from  their  deep  s! umbering  awake, 
Who  lie  beneath  me  in  their  narrow  beds. 

Oh,  what  is  life  ?  at  best  a  narrow  bound, 

Where  each  that  lives  some  baffled  hope  survives  : 

A  search  for  something,  never  to  be  found, 
Records  the  history  of  the  greatest  lives  ! 

There  is  a  haven  for  each  weary  bark, 

A  port  where  they  who  rest  are  free  from  sin ; 

But  we,  like  children  trembling  in  the  dark, 
Drive  on  and  on,  afraid  to  entei  in. 


Here  lies  an  aged  patriarch  at  rest, 

To  whom  the  needy  never  vainly  cried, 
Till  in  this  vale,  with  toil  and  years  oppressed, 

His  long-sustaining  staff  was  laid  aside. 
Oft  for  his  country  had  he  fought  and  bled, 

And  gladly,  when  the  lamp  of  life  grew  dim, 
He  joined  the  silent  army  of  the  dead — 

Then  why  should  tears  of  sorrow  flow  for  him  ' 
We  mourn  not  for  the  cornfield's  deep'ning  gold, 

Nor  when  the  sickle  on  the  hills  is  plied ; 
And  wherefore  should  we  sorrow  for  the  old 

Who  perish  when  life's  paths  have  all  been  tried  ! 
How  oft  at  noon,  beneath  the  orchard  trees, 

With  brow  serene  and  venerably  fair, 
I  've  seen  a  little  prattler  on  his  knees, 

Smoothing  with  dimpled  hand  his  silver  hair. 
When  music  floated  on  the  sunny  hills,       [drest, 

And  trees  and  shrubs  with  opening  flowers  were 
She  meekly  put  aside  life's  cup  of  ills. 

And  kindly  neighbors  laid  her  here  to  rest. 
And  ye  who  loved  her,  would  ye  call  her  back, 

Where  its  deep  thirst  the  soul  may  never  slake; 
And  sorrow,  with  her  lean  and  hungry  pack, 

Pursues  through  every  winding  which  we  take? 
W7here  lengthened  years  but  teach  the  bitter  truth, 

That  transient  preference  does  not  make  a  friend ; 
That  manhood  disavows  the  love  of  youth, 

And  riper  years  of  manhood,  to  the  end. 
Beneath  this  narrow  heap  of  mouldering  earth, 

Hard  by  the  mansions  of  the  old  and  young, 
A  wife  and  mother  sleeps,  whose  humble  worth 

And  quiet  virtues  poet  never  sung. 

With  yonder  cabin,  half  with  ivy  veiled, 
And  children  by  the  hand  of  mercy  sent — 

And  love's  sweet  star,  that  never,  never  paled, 
Her  bosom  knew  the  fulness  of  content. 

Mocking  ambition  never  came  to  tear 
The  finest  fibres  from  her  heart  away — 

The  aim  of  her  existence  was  to  bear 

The  cross  in  patient  meekness  day  by  day. 

No  hopeless,  blind  idolater  of  chance, 

The  sport  and  plaything  of  each  wind  that  blows, 
But  lilting  still  by  faith  a  heavenward  glance, 

She  saw  the  waves  of  death  around  her  close. 
And  here  her  children  come  with  pious  tears, 

And  strew  their  simple  offerings  in  the  sod ; 
And  learn  to  tread  like  her  the  vale  of  years, 

Beloved  of  man  and  reconciled  to  God. 

Now  from  the  village  school  .the  urchins  come, 

And  shout  and  laughter  echo  far  and  wide  ; 
The  blue  smoke  curls  from  many  a  rustic  home, 

WThere  all  their  simple  wants  are  well  supplied 
The  labored  hedger,  pausing  by  the  way, 

Picks  the  ripe  berries  from  the  gadding  vine : 
The  axe  is  still,  the  cattle  homeward  stray, 

And  transient  glories  mark  the  day's  decline. 


380 


ALICE    AND  PHCEBE    CAREY. 


PHGEBE    CAREY. 

(Born  1825— Died  1871J 


THE   LOVERS. 


THOU  marve'.est  why  so  oft  her  eyes 

Fill  with  the  heavy  dew  of  tears — 
Have  I  not  to'd  thee  that  there  lies 

A  shadow  darkly  on  her  years  ] 
Life  was  to  her  one  sunny  whole, 

Made  up  of  visions  fancy  wove, 
Till  that  the  waters  of  her  soul 

Were  troubled  by  the  touch  of  love. 
I  knew  when  first  the  sudden  pause 

Upon  her  spirit's  sunshine  fell — 
Alas  !  I  little  guessed  the  cause, 

'T  was  hidden  in  her  heart  so  well : 
Our  lives  since  early  infancy 

Had  flowed  as  rills  together  flow, 
And  now  to  hide  her  thought  from  me 

Was  bitterer  than  to  tell  its  wo. 

One  night,  when  clouds  with  anguish  black 

A  tempest  in  her  bosom  woke, 
She  crushed  the  bitter  tear-drops  back, 

And  told  me  that  her  heart  was  broke  ! 
I  learned  it  when  the  autumn  hours 

With  wailing  winds  around  us  sighed — 
'T  was  summer  when  her  love's  young  flowers 

Burst  into  glorious  life,  and  died  : 
No — now  I  can  remember  well, 

!Twas  the  soft  month  of  sun  and  shower; 
A  thousand  times  I've  heard  her  tell 

The  season,  and  the  very  hour: 
For  now,  whene'er  the  tear-drops  start, 

As  if  to  ease  its  throbbing  pain, 
She  leans  her  head  upon  my  heart 

And  tells  the  very  tale  again. 

'Tis  something  of  a  moon,  that  beamed 

Upon  her  weak  and  trembling  form, 
And  one  beside,  on  whom  she  leaned, 

That  scarce  had  stronger  heart  or  arm — 
Of  souls  united  there  until 

Death  the  last  ties  of  life  shall  part, 
And  a  fond  kiss  whose  rapturous  thrill 

Still  vibrates  softly  in  her  he-art. 
Tt  is  an  era  strange,  yet  sweet, 

Which  every  woman's  thought  has  known, 
When  first  her  young  heart  learns  to  beat 

To  the  soft  music  of  a  tone — - 
That  era  when  she  first  begins 

To  know,  what  love  alone  can  teach, 
That  there  are  hidden  depths  within, 

Which  friendship  never  yet  could  reach  : 
And  all  earth  has  of  bitter  wo, 

Is  light  beside  her  hopeless  doom, 
Who  sees  love's  first  sweet  star  below 

Fade  slowly  till  it  sets  in  gloom  : 
There  may  be  heavier  grief  to  move 

The  heart  that  mourns  an  idol  dead, 
But  one  who  weeps  a  living  love 

Has  surely  little  left  to  dread. 
I  can  not  tell  why  love  so  true 

As  theirs,  should  only  end  in  gloom 

Some  mystery  that  I  never  knew 

Was  woven  darkly  with  their  doom  : 


I  only  know  their  dream  was  vain, 

And  that  they  woke  to  find  it  past, 
And  when  by  chance  they  met  again, 

It  was  not  as  they  parted  last. 
His  was  not  faith  that  lightly  dies, 

For  truth  and  love  as  c! early  shone 
In  the  blue  heaven  of  his  soft  eves, 

As  the  dark  midnight  of  her  own  : 
And  therefore  Heaven  alone  can  tell 

W'hat  are  his  living  visions  now ; 
But  hers — the  eye  can  read  too  well 

The  language  written  on  her  brow. 

In  the  soft  twilight,  dim  and  sweet, 

Once,  watching  by  the  lattice  pane, 
She  listened  for  his  coming  feet, 

For  whom  she  never  looked  in  vain  : 
Then  hope  shone  brightly  on  her  brow, 

That  had  not  learned  its  after  fears — 
Alas  !  she  can  not  sit  there  now, 

But  that  her  dark  eves  fill  with  tears! 
And  every  woodland  pathway  dim, 

And  bower  of  roses  cool  and  sweet, 
That  speak  of  vanished  days  and  him, 

Are  spots  forbidden  to  her  feet. 
No  thought  within  her  bosom  stirs, 

But  wakes  some  feeling  dark  and  dread: 
God  keep  thee  from  a  doom  like  hers — 

Of  living  when  the  hopes  are  dead  ! 


BEARING  LIFE'S  BURDENS. 

On,  there  are  moments  for  us  here,  when,  seeing 
Life's  inequalities,  and  wo,  and  care, 

The  burdens  laid  upon  our  mortal  being 
Seem  heavier  than  the  human  heart  can  bear. 

For  there  are  ills  that  come  without  foreboding, 
Lightnings  that  fall  before  the  thunders  roll, 

And  there  are  festering  cares,  that,  by  corroding, 
Eat  silently  their  way  into  the  soul. 

And  for  the  evils  that  our  race  inherit, 
What  strength  is  given  us  that  we  may  endure  ? 

Surely  the  God  and  Father  of  our  spirit 
Sends  not  afflictions  which  he  can  not  cure ! 

No !  there  is  a  Physician,  there  is  healing, 
And  light  that  beams  upon  life's  darkest  day, 

To  him  whose  heart  is  right  with  God,  revealing 
The  wisdom  and  the  justice  of  his  way. 

Not  him  who  never  lifts  his  thought  to  Heaven, 

Remembering  whence  his  blessings  have  been  sent; 
Nor  yet  to  him  are  strength  and  wisdom  given, 

Whose  days  with  profitless  scourge  and  fast  are 

spent : 
But  him  whose  heart  is  as  a  temple  holy, 

Whose  prayer  in  every  act  of  right  is  said — • 
He  shall  be  strong,  whether  life's  ills  wear  slowly, 

Or  come  like  lightning  down  upon  his  head : 
He  who  for  his  own  good  or  for  another 

Ready  to  pray,  and  strive,  and  labor,  stands — 
Who  loves  his  God  by  loving  well  his  brother, 

And  worships  him  by  keeping  his  commands. 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


381 


RESOLVES. 

I  HAVE  said  I  wou'd  not  meet  him — 

Have  I  said  the  words  in  vain  1 
Sunset  burns  along  the  hill-tops, 

And  I'm  waiting  here  again: 
But  my  promise  is  not  hroken, 

Though  I  stand  where  once  we  met ; 
When  I  hear  his  coming  footsteps, 

I  can  fly  him  even  yet. 

We  have  stood  here  oft  when  evening 

Deepened  slowly  o'er  the  plain, 
But  I  must  not,  dare  not,  meet  him 

In  the  shadows  here  again  ; 
For  I  could  not  turn  away  and 

Leave  that  pleading  look  and  tone, 
And  the  sorrow  of  his  parting 

Would  he  bitter  as  my  own. 

In  the  dim  and  distant  ether 

The  first  star  is  shining  through, 
And  another,  and  another  ! 

Trembles  softly  in  the  blue : 
Should  I  linger  but  one  moment 

In  the  shadows  where  I  stand, 
I  shall  see  the  vine-leaves  parted 

With  a  quick,  impatient  hand. 
But  I  will  not  wait  his  coming — 

He  will  surely  come  once  more  ; 
Though  I  said  I  wou'd  not  mee*  him, 

I  have  told  him  so  before ; 
And  he  knows  the  stars  of  evening 

See  me  standing  here  again — 
Oh,  he  surely  will  not  leave  me 

Now  to  watch  and  wait  in  vain  ! 

'Tis  the  hour — the  time  of  meeting — 

In  one  moment  'twill  be  past; 
And  last  night  he  stood  beside  me — 

Was  that  blessed  time  the  last  1 
I  could  better  bear  my  sorrow, 

Could  I  live  that  parting  o'er : 
Oh,  I  wish  I  had  not  to!d  him 

That  I  wou'd  not  come  once  more  ! 
Could  that  have  been  the  night-wind 

Moved  the  branches  thus  apart  ? 
Did  I  hear  a  coming  footstep, 

Or  the  beating  of  my  heart  ? 
No — I  hear  him,  I  can  see  him, 

And  my  weak  resolves  are  vain : 
I  will  fly,  but  to  his  bosom, 

And  to  leave  it  not  again  ! 


LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS. 

DID  we  think  of  the  light  and  sunshine, 

Of  the  blessings  left  us  still, 
When  we  sit  and  ponder  darkly 

And  blindly  o'er  life's  ill, 
How  should  we  dispel  the  shadow? 

Of  stil'  and  deep  despair, 
And  lessen  the  weight  of  anguish 

Which  every  heart  must  bear  ] 


The  clouds  may  rest  on  the  present. 

And  sorrow  on  days  that  are  gone, 
But  no  night  is  so  utterly  cheerless 

That  we  may  not  look  for  the  dawn ; 
And  there  is  no  human  being 

With  so  who'lv  dark  a  lot, 
But  the  heart,  by  turning  the  picture, 

May  find  some  sunny  spot : 

For,  as  in  the  lays  of  winter, 

When  the  snowdrifts  whiten  the  hill, 
Some  birds  in  the  air  will  flutter, 

And  warble,  to  cheer  us  still  : 
So,  if  we  would  hark  to  the  music, 

Some  hope  with  a  starry  wing, 
In  the  days  of  our  darkest  sorrow, 

Will  sit  in  the  heart  and  sing. 


THE   WIFE   OF  BESSIERES.* 

THE  pathway  where  the  sun  went  down, 

Shone  faintly  in  the  western  arch, 
As  tranquil  Eve  was  leading  on 

Her  silent  armies  in  their  march : 
Bright  hosts  of  onward  moving  stars 

Were  in  the  orient  climbing  higher, 
Where,  first  among  his  brethren,  Mars 

Burned  redly  as  a  beam  of  fire  : 

In  the  wide  plain  that  lay  below 

The  dark  Bohemian  mountain  heights, 
But  lately,  from  the  tents  of  snow, 

Streamed  ruddily  the  camp  fire's  lights. 
But  now  the  grass  waves  quietly, 

The  mountains  watch  that  place  alone, 
And  the  cool  night  dews  silently 

To  leaf  and  flower  came  stealing  down. 

Yet  in  that  valley,  lone  and  damp, 

A  form  is  gliding  to  and  fro, 
And,  by  the  glimmer  of  her  lamp, 

I  see  a  mourner's  face  of  wo  : 
That  beacon  through  the  night  burns  on 

The  pale  face  lingering  sweet'y  nigh, 
And  fades  not  when  the  feet  of  dawn 

Shake  out  the  diamonds  from  the  sky. 

'Tis  she,  whose  noble  lover  died 

Ere  the  red  morn  of  Lutzen  shone — 
The  duke  of  Istria's  mournful  bride 

Still  watching  by  his  tomb  alone. 
Vain  weeper,  wherefore  linger  on  1 

Thy  locks  with  heavy  dews  are  wet — 
The  feet  that  to  the  dead  go  down, 

Ne'er  came  to  meet  the  faithful  yet. 

Oh,  woman's  love  hath  fondly  turned 

To  those  in  dungeons,  deep  and  dark, 
And  beacon  fires  have  steadily  burned 

To  light  a  long-expected  bark  : 
But  what  affection,  true  and  tried, 

Which  death  can  shake  not,  nor  remove, 
Is  hers,  who  feeds  the  lamp  beside 

The  sepulchre  of  buried  love. 

*  The  king  of  Saxony  erected  a  monument  over  Ben- 
Sieres,  where  ht;  fell,  and  over  it  his  disconsolate  wid!<vi' 
kept  a  lamp  burning,  ni^ht  and  day,  for  a  year. 


382 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


THE  FOLLOWERS  OF  CHRIST. 

Wn  AT  were  Thy  teachings  ?   thou  who  hadst  not 

In  all  this  weary  earth  to  lay  thy  head  ;     [where 
Thou  who  wert  made  the  sins  of  men  to  bear, 

And  break  with  publicans  thy  daily  bread  ! 
Turning  from  Nazareth,  the  despised,  aside, 

And  dwelling  in  the  cities  by  the  sea, 
What  were  thy  words  to  those  who  sat  and  dried 

Their  nets  upon  the  rocks  of  Galilee"? 
Didst  thou  not  teach  thy  followers  here  below, 

Patience,  long-sufferintr,  charitv,  and  love  ; 
To  be  forgiving,  and  to  anger  s'ow, 

And  perfect,  like  our  blessed  Lord  above? 
And  who  were  they,  the  called  and  chosen  then, 

Through  a'l  the  world,  teaching  tliv  truth,  to  go  ? 
Were  they  the  ru'ers,  and  the  chiefest  men, 

The  teachers  in  the  synagogue?      Not  so! 
Makers  of  tents,  and  fishers  bv  the  sea, 
These  on'y  left  their  all  to  follow  thee. 
And  even  of  the  twelve  whom  thou  didst  name 

Apostles  of  thy  ho'y  word  to  be, 
One  was  a  devil;  and  the  one  who  came 

With  loudest  boasts  of  faith  and  constancy, 
He  was  the  first  thy  warning  who  forgot, 
And  said,  with  curses,  that  he  knew  thee  not! 
Yet  were  there  some  who  in  thy  sorrows  were 

To  thee  even  as  a  brother  and  a  friend, 
And  women,  seeking  out  the  sepulchre, 

Were  true  and  faithful  even  to  the  end  : 
And  some  there  were  who  kept  the  living  faith 
Through  persecution  even  unto  death 
But,  Savior,  since  that  dark  and  awful  day 

When  the  dread  temple's  veil  was  rent  in  twain, 
And  while  the  noontide  brightness  fled  away, 

The  »aping  earth  gave  up  her  dead  again  ; 
Tracing  the  many  generations  down. 

Who  have  professed  to  love  thy  holy  ways, 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  the  world's  renown, 

And  through  the  terrors  of  her  darker  days 

Where  are  thy  followers,  and  what  deeds  of  love 
Their  deep  devotion  to  thy  precepts  prove  ? 
Turn  to  the  time  when  o'er  the  green  hills  came 

Peter  the  Hermit,  from  the  cloister's  gloom, 
Telling  his  followers  in  the  Savior's  name 

To  arm  and  battle  for  the  sacred  tomb ; 
Not  with  the  Christian  armor — perfect  faith, 

And  love  which  purifies  the  soul  from  dross 

But  holding  in  one  hand  the  sword  of  death, 

And  in  the  other  lifting  up  the  cross, 
He  roused  the  sleeping  nations  up  to  feel 
All  the  blind  ardor  of  unholy  zeal! 
With  the  bright  banner  of  the  cross  unfurled, 

And  chanting  sacred  hymns,  they  marched,  and 
Pliey  made  a  pandemonium  of  the  world,        ("yet 

More  dark  than  that  whore  fallen  angels  met: 
The  singing  of  their  bugles  could  not  drown 
The  bitter  curses  of  the  hunted  down  ! 
Richard,  the  lion-hearted,  bravo  in  war, 

Tancred,  and  Godfrey,  of  the  fearless 'band, 
fhough  oarth'y  fame  had  spread  their  names  afar, 

What  were  they  but  the  scourges  of  the  land  ? 
And  worse  than  those,  wore  men  whose  touch  would 
I1  Dilution,  vowed  to  lives  of  sanctity  !  n)e 


And  in  thy  name  did  men  in  other  days 

Construct  the  inquisition's  gloomy  cell, 
And  kindle  persecution  to  a  blaze, 

Likost  of  all  things  to  the  fires  of  hell ! 
Ridley  and  Latimer — I  hear  their  song 

In  calling  up  each  martyr's  glorious  name, 
And  Cranmer,  with  the  praises  on  his  tongue 

When  his  red  hand  dropped  down  amid  the  flame! 
Merciful  God  !  and  have  these  things  been  done, 
And  in  the  name  of  thy  most  holy  Son  ? 
Turning  from  other  lands  grown  old  in  crime, 

To  this,  where  Freedom's  root  is  deeply  set, 
Surely  no  stain  upon  its  folds  sublime 

Dims  the  escutcheon  of  our  glory  yet ! 
Hush  !  came  there  not.  a  sound  upon  the  air 

Like  captives  moaning  from  their  native  shore — 
Woman's  deep  wail  of  passionate  despair 

For  home  and  kindred  seen  on  earth  no  morr  ' 
Yes,  standing  in  the  market-place  I  see 

Our  weaker  brethren  coldly  bought  and  sold, 
To  be  in  hopeless,  dull  captivity, 

Driven  forth  to  toil  like  cattle  from  the  fold : 
And  hark!  the  lash,  and  the  despairing  cry 

Of  the  strong  man  in  perilous  agony  ! 
And  near  me  I  can  hear  the  heavy  sound 

Of  the  dull  hammer  borne  upon  the  air: 
Is  a  new  city  rising  from  the  ground  ? 

What  hath  the  artisan  constructed  there  ? 
'Tis  not  a  palace,  nor  an  humble  shed ; 

'Tis  not  a  holy  temple  reared  by  hands — 
No ! — lifting  up  its  dark  and  bloody  head 

Right  in  the  face  of  Heaven,  the  scaffold  stands 
And  men,  regardless  of  «  Thou  shalt  not  kill," 

That  plainest  lesson  in  the  Book  of  Light, 
Even  from  the  very  altars  tell  us  still, 

That  evil  sanctioned  by  the  law  is  right ! 
And  preach,  in  tones  of  eloquence  sublime, 
To  teach  mankind  that  murder  is  not  crime  ! 
And  is  there  nothing  to  redeem  mankind  ? — 

No  heart  that  keeps  the  love  of  God  within  ? 
Is  the  whole  world  degraded,  weak,  and  blind, 

And  darkened  by  the  leprous  scales  of  sin? 
No,  we  will  hope  that  some,  in  meekness  sweet, 
Still  sit,  with  trusting  Mary,  at  thy  feet. 
For  there  are  men  of  God,  who  faithful  stand 

On  the  far  ramparts  of  our  Zion's  wall, 
Planting  the  cross  of  Jesus  in  some  land 

That  never  listened  to  salvation's  call. 
And  there  are  some,  led  by  philanthropy, 

Men  of  the  feeling  heart  and  daring  mind, 
Who  fain  would  set  the  hopeless  free, 

And  raise  the  weak  and  fallen  of  mankind. 
And  there  are  many  in  life's  humblest  way, 

Who  tread  like  angels  on  a  path  of  light, 
Who  warn  the  sinful  when  they  go  astray, 

And  point  the  erring  to  the  way  of  right ; 
And  the  meek  beauty  of  such  lives  will  teach 
.More  than  the  eloquence  of  man  can  preach. 
And    hVss-d  Savior!   by  thy  life  of  trial, 

And  by  thy  death,  to  free  the  world  from  sin, 
And  by  the  hope  that  man,  though  weak  and  vile, 

Hath  something  of  divinity  within — 
Still  will  we  trust,  though  sin  and  crime  be  met, 
To  see  thy  holy  precepts  triumph  yet! 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


SYMPATHY. 

INT  the  same  beaten  channel  still  have  run 
The  blessed  streams  of  human  sympathy ; 

An  1  though  I  know  this  ever  hath  been  done, 
The  why  and  wherefore  I  could  never  see  : 

Why  some  such  sorrow  for  their  griefs  have  won, 
And  some,  unpitied,  bear  their  misery, 

Are  mysteries,  which,  thinking  o'er  and  o'er, 

Has  left  me  nothing  wiser  than  before. 

"What  hitter  tears  of  agony  have  flowed 
O'er  the  sad  pages  of  some  o'd  romance  !  [glowed, 

How   Beauty's    cheek   beneath   those   drops   has 
That  dimmed  the  sparkling  lustre  of  her  glance, 

And  on  some  lovesick  maiden  is  bestowed, 
Or  some  rejected,  hapless  knight,  perchance, 

All  her  deep  sympathies,  until  her  moans 

Stifle  the  nearer  sound  of  living  groans  ! 

Oh,  the  deep  sorrow  for  their  sufferings  felt,    [prove 
Where  is  found  something — "  better  days" — to 

What  heart  above  their  downfall  will  not  melt, 
Wiio  in  a  "  higher  circle"  once  could  move : 

For  such,  mankind  have  ever  freely  dealt 
Out  the  full  measure  of  their  pitying  love, 

Because  they  witnessed,  in  their  wretchedness, 

Their  friends  grow  fewer,  and  their  fortunes  less. 

But  for  some  humb'e  peasant  girl's  distress, 
Some  real  being  left  to  stem  the  tide, 

Who  saw  her  young  heart's  wea'th  of  tenderness 
Betrayed,  and  trampled  on,  and  flung  aside — 

Who  seeks  her  out,  to  make  her  sorrows  less  1 
What  noble  lady  "o'er  her  tale  hath  cried  1 

None  !   for  the  records  of  such  humble  grief 

Obtain  not  human  pity — scarce  belief. 

And  p.s  for  their  distress,  who  from  the  first 

Have  had  no  fortune  and  no  friends  to  fail  — 
Tnose  who  in  poverty  were  born  and  nursed  : 

For  such,  by  men,  are  placed  without  the  pale 
Of  sympathy — since  they  are  deemed  the  worst 

Who  are  the  humblest  ;  and  if  want  assail 
And  bring  them  harder  toil,  'tis  only  said 
"They  have  been  used  to  labor  for  their  bread  !" 
Oh,  the  unknown,  unpitied  thousands  found 

Huddled  together,  hid  from  human  sight 
By  fell  disease  or  gnawing  famine — bound 

To  some  dim,  crowded  garret,  day  and  night, 
Or  in  unwholesome  cellars  under  ground, 

With  scarce  a  breath  of  air  or  ray  of  light — 
Hunger  and  ra-js,  and  labor  ill  repaid  : 
These  are  the 'things  that  ask  our  tears  and  aid. 
And  these  ought  not  to  be  :  it  is  not  well, 

Here  in  this  land  of  Christian  liberty, 
That  honest  worth  or  hopeless  want  shouM  dwell 

Unaided  by  our  care  and  sympathy  : 
And  is  it  not  a  burning  shame  to  tell 

We  have  no  means  to  check  such  misery, 
When  wealth  from  out  our  treasury  free  y  flows, 
To  wage  a  deadly  warfare  with  our  foes  ! 
It  is  all  wrong  :  yet  men  begin  to  deem 

The  days  of  darkest  g'oom  are  nearly  done  — 
A  something,  like  the  first  daylight  beam 

That  h^ra'ds  with  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 


Breaks  on  the  sight.     Oh,  if  it  be  no  dream, 

How  shall  we  haste  that  blessed  era  on  : 
For  there  is  need  that  on  men's  hearts  should  fall 
A  spirit  that  shall  sympathize  with  all. 


SONG  OF  THK  HEART. 

THEY  may  tell  for  ever  of  worlds  of  bloom, 
Beyond  the  skies  and  beyond  the  tomb  — 
Of  the  sweet  repose  and  the  rapture  there, 
That  are  not  found  in  a  world  of  care : 
But  not  to  me  can  the  present  seem 
Like  a  foolish  tale  or  an  idle  dream. 

Oh,  I  know  that  the  bowers  of  heaven  are  fair, 
And  I  know  that  the  waters  of  life  are  there ; 
But  I  do  not  long  for  their  happy  flow, 
While  there  burst  such  fountains  of  bliss  below 
And  I  would  not  leave,  for  the  rest  above, 
The  faithful  bosom  of  trusting  love  ! 

There  are  angels  here  :  .they  are  seen  the  while, 
In  each  love-lit  brow  and  each  gentle  smile  ; 
There  are  seraph  voices  that  meet  the  ear, 
In  the  kindly  tone  and  the  word  of  cheer , 
And  light,  such  light  as  they  have  above, 
Beams  on  us  here  from  the  eyes  of  love  ! 

Yet,  when  it  cometh  my  time  to  die, 
I  would  turn  from  this  bright  world  willing!/ ; 
Though,  even  then,  would  the  thoughts  of  this 
Tinge  every  dream  of  that  land  of  bliss : 
And  I  fain  would  lean  on  the  loved  for  aid, 
Nor  walk  alone  through  the  vale  and  shade. 

And  if  'tis  mine,  till  life's  changes  end, 
To  guard  the  heart  of  one  faithful  friend, 
Whatever  the  trials  of  earth  may  be, 
On  the  peaceful  shore  or  the  restless  sea — 
In  a  palace  home  or  the  wilderness — 
There  is  heaven  for  me  in  a  world  like  this. 


THE  PRISONER'S  LAST  NIGHT. 

THE  last  red  gold  had  melted  from  the  sky, 
Where  the  sweet  sunset  lingered  soft  and  warm, 

And  starry  Night  was  gathering  silently 
The  jewelled  mantle  round  her  regal  form ; 

While  the  invisible  fingers  of  the  breeze 

Shook  the  young  blossoms  lightly  from  the  trees. 

Yet  were  their  breaking  hearts  beneath  the  stars, 
Though  the  hushed  earth  lay  smiling  in  the  light, 

And  the  dull  fetters  and  the  prison  bars 
Saw  bitter  tears  of  agony  that  night, 

And  heard  such  burning  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  wring  the  life-drops  from  the  heart  c:'  youth. 

For  he,  whom  men  relentless  doomed  to  die, 
Parted  with  one  who  loved  him  tiii  (ho  iast; 

With  many  a  vow  of  faith  and  constancy 
The  long,  long  watches  of  the  night  were  passed 

Till  heavi  y  and  slow,  the  prison  door 

Swung  back,  and — to!d  them  that  their  hour  was  O'CT 

'T  was  his  last  night  on  earth !  and  God  alone 

Can  tell  the  anguish  of  that  stricken,  one, 
Fpttered  in  darkness  to  the  dungeon  stone, 


384 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


And  doomed  to  perish  with  the  rising  sun  : 
And  she,  whose  faith  through  a  1  was  vainly  true, 
Her  heart  was  hroken — and  she  perished  too. 
And  will  this  win  an  erring  brother  hack 

To  the  sweet  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace  ? 
"  Whi  e  crimes  are  punished  hut  hy  crimes  more 
black/' 

Will  ever  wickedness  and  sorrow  cease  1 
No  !  crime  will  never  fail  to  scourge  the  land, 
So  long  as  blood  is  on  her  ruler's  hand. 
And  oh,  how  long  will  hearts  in  sin  and  pride 

Reject  His  blessed  precepts,  who  of  yore 
Taught  men  forgiveness  on  the  mountain  side, 

And  spoke  of  love  and  mercy  hy  the  shore  1 
How  long  will  power,  with  such  despotic  sway, 
Trample  unfriended  weakness  in  its  way  ! 
Hasten,  0  Lord  of  light !  that  glorious  time 

When  man  no  more  sha'l  spurn  thy  wise  command, 
Filling  the  earth  with  wretchedness  and  crime, 

And  making  guilt  a  p'ague-spot  on  the  land  : 
Hasten  the  time,  that  blood  no  more  shall  cry 
Unceasingly  for  vengeance  to  the  sky  ! 

MEMOHTES. 

"  Slie  loved  me,  but  she  :eft  me." 

MEMORIES  on  memories  !  to  my  soul  again 

There  come  such  dreams  of  vanished  love  and  bliss 
That  my  wrung  heart,  though  long  inured  to  pain, 

Sinks  with  the  fulness  of  its  wretchedness  : 
Thou,  dearer  far  than  a'l  the  world  beside  ! 

Thou,  who  didst  listen  to  my  love's  first  vow — 
Once  I  had  fondly  hoped  to  call  thee  bride  : 

Is  the  dream  over  1   comes  the  awakening  now  1 
And  is  this  hour  of  wretchedness  and  tears 
The  only  guerdon  for  my  wasted  years  1 

And  I  did  love  thee — when  by  stealth  we  met 

In  the  sweet  evenings  of  that  summer  time, 
WThose  pleasant  memory  lingers  with  me  yet, 

As  the  remembrance  of  a  better  clime 
Might  haunt  a  fallen  angel.     And  oh,  thou — 

Thou  who  didst  turn  away  and  seek  to  bind 
Thy  heart  from  breaking — thou  hast  felt  ere  now 

A  heart  like  thine  o'ermastereth  the  mind  : 
Ail'ection's  power  is  stronger  than  thy  will — 
Ah,  thou  didst  love  me,  and  thou  lovest  me  still. 

My  heart  cou'd  never  yet  be  taught  to  move 

Writh  the  calm  even  pulses  that  it  should  : 
Turning  away  from  those  that  it  should  love, 

And  loving  whom  it  should  not,  it  hath  wooed 
Beauty  forbidden — I  may  not  forget ; 

And  thou,  oh  thou  canst  never  cease  to  feel ; 
Hut  time,  which  hath  not  changed  affection  yet, 

Hath  taught  at  least  one  lesson — to  conceal ; 
!So  none  but  thou,  who  see  my  smiles,  shall  know 
The  silent  bleeding  of  the  heart  below. 

"EQUAL  TO  EITHER  FORTUNE." 

"  ECIUAT,  to  either  fortune  !"     This  should  bo 
The  motto  of  the  perfect  man  and  true — 

Striving  to  stem  the  billow  fearlessly, 
And  keeping  steadily  the  right  in  view, 


Whether  it  he  his  lot  in  life  to  sail 
Before  an  adverse  or  a  prosperous  gale. 

Man  fearlessly  his  voice  for  truth  should  raise, 
When  truth  would  force  its  way  in  deed  or  word  ; 

W'hether  for  him  the  popular  voice  of  praise, 
Or  the  cold  sneer  of  unbelief  is  heard  : 

Like  the  First  Martyr,  when  his  voice  arose 

Distinct  above  the  hisses  of  hi?  foes. 

"  Equal  to  either  fortune,"  Heaven  designs, 
Whether  his  destiny  be  repose  or  toil — 

Whether  the  sun  upon  his  palace  shines, 
Or  calls  him  forth  to  plant  the  furrowed  soil : 

So  shall  he  find  life's  blessings  freely  strewn 

Around  the  peasant's  cottage  as  the  throne. 

Man  should  dare  all  things  which  he  knows  are  right, 
And  fear  to  do  no  act  save  what  is  wrong ; 

But,  guided  safely  by  his  inward  light, 
And  with  a  permanent  belief,  and  strong, 

In  Him  who  is  our  Father  and  our  friend, 

He  should  walk  steadfastly  unto  the  end. 

Ready  to  live  or  die,  even  in  that  day 
Which  man  from  childhood  has  been  taught  to  fear, 

When,  putting  off  its  cumbrous  weight  of  clay, 
The  spirit  enters  on  a  nobler  sphere  : 

And  he  will  be,  whose  life  was  rightly  passed, 

"  Equal  to  either  fortune"  at  the  last. 


COMING  HOME. 


How  long  it  seems  since  first  we  heard 

The  cry  of  "  land  in  sight !" 
Our  vessel  surely  never  sailed 

So  slowly  till  to-night. 
Wrhen  we  discerned  the  distant  hills, 

The  sun  was  scarcely  set, 
And,  now  the  noon  of  night  is  passed, 

They  seem  no  nearer  yet. 

Where  the  blue  Rhine  reflected  back 

Each  frowning  castle  wall. 
Where,  in  the  forest  of  the  Hartz, 

Eternal  shadows  fall — 
Or  where  the  yellow  Tiber  flowed 

By  the  old  hills  of  Rome — 
I  never  felt  such  restlessness, 

Such  longing  for  our  home. 
Dost  thou  remember,  oh,  my  friend, 

Wrhen  we  beheld  it  last, 
How  shadows  from  the  setting  sun 

Upon  our  cot  were  cast  1 
Three  summer-times  upon  its  walls 

Have  shone  for  us  in  vain ; 
But  oh,  we're  hastening  homeward  now, 

To  leave  it  not  again. 
There,  as  the.  last  star  dropped  away 

From  Night's  imperial  brow, 
Did  not  our  vessel  "  round  the  point"  ? 

The  land  looks  nearer  now  ! 
Yes,  as  the  first  faint  beams  of  day 

Fell  on  our  native  shore, 
They  're  dropping  anchor  in  the  bay, 

We  're  home,  we  're  home  once  more  ! 


ALICE    AND    PHCEBE    CAREY. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN. 

On,  beautiful  as  morning  in  those  hours, 
When,  as  her  pathway  lies  along  the  hills, 

Her  golden  fingers  wake  the  dewy  flowers, 
And  softly  touch  the  waters  of  the  rills, 

Was  she  who  walked  more  faintly  day  by  day, 

Till  silently  she  perisL.d  iy  the  way. 

It  was  not  hers  to  know  that  perfect  heaven 
Of  passionate  love  returned  by  love  as  deep ; 

Not  hers  to  sing  the  cradle-song  at  even, 
Watching  the  beauty  of  her  babe  asleep ; 

"  Mother  and  brethren" — these  she  had  not  known, 

Save  such  as  do  the  Father's  will  alone. 

Yet  found  she  something  still  for  which  to  live — 
Hearths  desolate,  where  angel-like  she  came, 

And  "  little  ones"  to  whom  her  hand  could  give 
A  cup  of  water  in  her  Master's  name; 

And  breaking  heaits  to  bind  away  from  death, 

With  the  soft  hand  of  pitying  love  and  faith. 

She  never  won  the  voice  of  popular  praise, 
But,  counting  earthly  triumph  as  but  dross, 

Seeking  to  keep  her  Savior's  perfect  ways, 
Bearing  in  the  still  path  his  blessed  cross, 

She  made  her  life,  while  with  us  here  she  trod, 

A  consecration  to  the  will  of  God  ! 

And  she  hath  lived  and  labored  not  in  vain  : 
Through  the  deep  prison  cells  her  accents  thrill, 

And  the  sad  slave  leans  idly  on  his  chain, 
Am?  hears  the  music  of  her  singing  still ; 

While  little  children,  with  their  innocent  praise, 

Keep  freshly  in  men's  hearts  her  Christian  ways. 

And  what  a  beautiful  lesson  she  made  known — 
The  whiteness  of  her  soul  sin  could  not  dim ; 

Ready  to  lay  down  on  God's  altar  stone 
The  dearest  treasure  of  her  life  for  him. 

Her  flame  of  sacrifice  never,  never  waned, 

How  could  she  live  and  die  so  self-sustained  ] 

For  friends  supported  not  her  parting  soul, 
And  whispered  words  of  comfort,  kind  and  sweet, 

When  treading  onward  to  that  final  goal, 
Where  the  still  bridegroom  waited  for  her  feet ; 

Alone  she  walked,  yet  with  a  fearless  tread, 

Down  to  Death's  chamber,  and  his  bridal  bed  ! 


DEATH  SCENE. 

DYING,  still  slowly  dying, 

As  the  hours  of  night  rode  by, 
She  had  lain  since  the  light  of  sunset 

Was  red  on  the  evening  sky  : 
Till  after  the  middle  watches, 

As  we  softly  near  her  trod, 
When  her  soul  from  its  prison  fetters 

Was  loosed  by  the  hand  of  God. 

One  moment  her  pale  lips  trembled 
With  the  triumph  she  might  not  tell, 

As  the  sight  of  the  life  immortal 
On  her  spirit's  vision  fell ; 

Then  the  look  of  rapture  faded, 
25 


And  the  beautiful  smile  was  faint, 
As  that  in  some  convent  picture, 
On  the  face  of  a  dying  saint. 

And  we  felt  in  the  lonesome  midnight, 

As  we  sat  bv  the  silent  dead, 
What  a  light  on  the  pnth  going  downward 

The  feet  of  the  righteous  shed  ; 
When  we  thought  how  with  faith  unshrinking 

She  came  to  the  Jordan's  tide, 
And  taking  the  hand  of  the  Savior, 

W7ent  up  on  the  heavenly  side 


LOVE  AT  THE  GRAVE. 

REMEMBRANCER  of  nature's  prime, 
And  herald  of  her  fading  near, 

The  last  month  of  the  summer  time 
Of  leaves  and  flowers  is  with  us  hero 

More  eloquent  than  lip  can  preach, 
To  every  heart  that  hopes  and  fears, 

What  solemn  lesson  does  it  teach, 
Of  the  quick  passage  of  our  years. 

To  me  it  brings  sad  thoughts  of  one, 
Who  in  the  summer's  fading  bloom 

Bright  from  the  arms  of  love  went  down 
To  the  dim  silence  of  the  tomb. 

How  often  since  has  spring's  soft  shower 
Revived  the  life  in  nature's  breast, 

And  the  sweet  herb  and  tender  flower 
Have  been  renewed  above  her  rest ! 

How  many  summer  times  have  told 
To  mortal  hearts  their  rapid  flight, 

Since  first  this  heap  of  yellow  mould 
Shut  out  her  beauty  from  my  sight. 

Since  first,  to  love's  sweet  promise  true, 

My  feet  beside  her  pillow  trod, 
Till  year  by  year  the  pathway  grew 

Deeper  and  deeper  in  the  sod. 

Now  these  neglected  roses  tell 

Of  no  kind  hand  to  tend  them  nigh — 

Oh  God  !  I  have  not  kept  so  well 
My  faith  as  in  the  years  gone  by  ! 

But  here  to-day  my  step  returns, 

And  kneeling  where  these  willows  wave, 

As  the  soft  flame  of  sunrise  burns 

Down  through  the  dim  leaves  to  thy  gravo- 

I  cry,  forgive,  that  I  should  prove 

Forgetful  of  thy  memory ; 
Forgive  me,  that  a  living  love 

Once  came  between  my  soul  and  thee ! 

For  the  weak  heart  that  vainly  yearned 
For  human  love  its  life  to  cheer, 

Baffled  and  bleeding,  has  returned 
To  stifle  down  its  crying  here. 

For,  steadfast  still,  thy  faith  to  me 

Was  one  which  earth  could  not  estrangrw " 

And,  lost  one  !  where  the  angels  be, 
I  know  affection  may  not  change  ! 


MARY    LOCKHART    LAWSON. 


Miss  LAWSON  is  a  native  of  Philadelphia. 
Her  father,  the  late  Alexander  Lawson,  of 
that  city,  was  a  countryman,  friend,  and  in 
structor  of  Wilson,  the  ornithologist,  and  in 
the  life  of  that  remarkable  man  is  frequently 
referred  to  for  the  most  admirable  traits  of 
diameter.  He  was  an  artist  of  such  excel 
lence  that  Lucien  Bonaparte  was  accustomed 
to  speak  of  him  as  the  master  of  all  the  en 
gravers  in  natural  history. 

Miss  Lawson's  poems  have  appeared  prin 
cipally  since  1842,  in  the  Knickerbocker  and 


in  Graham's  Magazine.  She  has  occasion 
ally  written  with  considerable  felicity  in  the 
Scottish  dialect,  but. I  think  her  English  po 
ems  best,  notwithstanding  her  perfect  and 
loving  familiarity  with  the  language  and  the 
literature  of  the  fatherland  cf  her  parents. 
They  are  characterized  by  a  pleasing  fancy, 
and  frequently  by  tenderness  of  feeling,  and 
a  minute  and  artistlike  truthfulness  of  rural 
description.  Some  of  her  religious  pieces 
are  graceful  and  fervid  expressions  of  trust 
and  devotion. 


THE  BANISHED  LOVER. 


Cliarpip  ivj«  oui  m'eloignoit  de  vous,  separoit  mon  corps  de 
in'-  i'j  que  Je  verruis. 


THEY  tell  me  of  the  prospect  I  survey, 

They  speak  of  streams,  and  skies  of  deepest  blue, 

That  shine  o'er  fertile  vales  and  flowery  meads ; 

Of  mountain  clefts,  with  torrents  dashing  through: 

It  may  IK-  s ) ;  for  Nature  to  the  gay 

Ls  ever  beautiful — it  charms  not  me  ! 

I  only  feel  my  soul  remains  afar — 

My  passion-clouded  eyes  see  naught  save  thee. 

The  tender,  blissful  thoughts  that  fill  my  soul, 
Bound  by  mine  oath  to  thee,  I  fain  would  quell ; 
For  I  have  promised,  dear  one  !   for  thy  sake, 
To  yield  no  more  to  love-enrapturing  spell : 
I  would  obey — like  other  mortals  seem; 
Bear  with  my  fate,  and  brave  reality  : 
But  shrii'kiiM  from  the  wretchedness  it  brings, 
I  cling  to  visions  that  are  full  of  thee. 

I  know  that  we  must  part :  but  do  not  prove 

Too  pitilrss,  beloved  !   nor  urge  too  far 

Tin-  KiiHei-ings  of  a  grieved  and  tortured  heart, 

\Vhore  love  and  honor  hold  perpetual  war: 

I  go  at  thy  command  ;  but  can  I  join 

A  dreu.y  world,  where  thou  art  naught  to  me1 

No  1   better  far  in  so'itude  to  dwell, 

And  cheer  its  lonely  hours  with  dreams  of  thee. 

Yet  oft  will  memory  paint  one  happy  scene, 
One  moment  fraught  with  ecstasy  of  bliss, 
When,  thrilling  with  the  soft  clasp  of  thy  hand, 
My  lips  met  thine  in  one  long  glowing  kiss: 
Ah,  fatal  gift!  that  was  our  parting  doom — 
How  wert  thou  shadowed  by  Fate's  stern  decree ! 
Alas!   that  clouds  of  sadness  should  have  dimmed 
The  first,  the  only  boon  of  love  from  thee  ! 


BELIEVE  IT. 

IF  thy  heart  whispers  that  I  love  thee  still, 

Yet  living  on  a  memory  of  the  past, 
Or  that  mine  eyes  with  tender  tear-drops  fill, 

As  o'er  Hope's  ruined  page  my  glance  is  cast — 
That  oft  thy  name  is  blended  with  my  prayer, 

Thine  image  mingled  with  the  morning's  light, 
That  sleep,  which  drowns  all  waking  dreams  of  care, 

But  wafts  thy  softened  shadow  to  my  sight — 
Believe  it 

If  when  thou  dost  recall  that  vine-clad  grove,  [ding-, 

The  moonbeamsfilled  with  checkered  light  and  sha- 
Where  first  we  breathed  our  trembling  vows  of  love, 

And  lingered  till  the  stars'  soft  rays  were  fading, 
Thy  fancy  paints  me  wandering  sad  and  slow 

Through  those  dim  paths  that  once  thy  footsten 
With  deep  regrets  and  sighs  of  lonely  wo,  [pressed 

That  find  no  echo  in  thine  altered  breast — 
Believe  it. 

Though  when  we  meet,  I  school  my  downcast  eye 

And  faltering  lip  to  speak  a  careless  greeting, 
Or  rriid  the  crowd  in  silence  pass  thee  by, 

Lest  I  betray  my  heart's  unquiet  beating : 
'T  is  that  no  eye  save  thine  shall  ever  see 

My  soul  gush  forth  in  yearning  to  thine  own, 
Or  coldly  trace  the  feelings  felt  for  thee. 

And  read  the  love  revealed  in  look  and  tone — 
Believe  it. 

Wronged  by  thine  anger,  prized  perchance  no  more, 

From  me  undying  thought  thou  canst  not  sever, 
Still  may  I  trust  to  meet  thee  on  that  shore 

Where  pure  affection  lights  the  soul  for  ever: 
Though  earthly  hope  in  meekness  I  resign, 

E'en  while  my  heart's  full  tenderness  revealing, 
Remember,  if  one  doubt  arise  in  thine, 

These  words  of  truth  in  bitter  tears  I'm  sealing: 

Believe  it ! 
386 


MARY   L.  LAWSON. 


387 


THE  HAUNTED  HEART. 

'T  is  true  he  ever  lingers  at  her  side, 

But  mark  the  wandering  glances  of  his  eye: 
A  lover  near  a  fond  and  plighted  bride, 

With  less  of  love  than  sorrow  in  his  sigh  ! 
And  well  it  is  for  her,  that  gentle  maid, 

Who  loves  too  well,  too  fervently,  for  fears ; 
She  deems  not  her  devotion  is  repaid 

With  deep  repinings  o'er  life's  early  years. 

For  oft  another's  image  fills  his  breast, 

E'en  when  he  breathes  to  her  love's  tender  vow ; 
While  her  soft  hand  within  his  own  is  prest, 

And  timid  blushes  mantle  her  young  brow, 
Fond  memory  whispers  of  the  dreamy  past, 

Its  hopes  and  joys,  its  agony  and  tears  : 
In  vain  from  out  his  soul  he  strives  to  cast 

One  shadowy  form — the  love  of  early  years. 

Ne'er  from  his  heart  the  vision  fades  away  : 

Amid  the  crowd,  in  silence,  and  alone, 
The  stars  by  night,  the  clear  blue  sky  by  day, 

Bring  to  his  mind  the  happiness  now  flown ; 
A  tone  of  song,  the  warbling  of  the  birds, 

The  simplest  thing  that  memory  endears, 
Can  still  recall  the  form,  the  voice,  the  words, 

Of  her,  the  best  beloved  of  early  years. 

He  dares  not  seek  the  spot  where  first  they  met, 

Too  dangerous  for  bis  only  hope  of  rest — 
His  strong  but  fruitless  effort  to  forget 

Those  scenes  that  wake  deep  sorrow  in  his  breast; 
And  yet  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  grove 

All  plainly  to  his  restless  mind  appears, 
Where,  as  the  sun  declined,  he  loved  to  rove 

With  her,  the  first  fond  dream  of  early  years. 

He  sees  the  stream  beside  whose  brink  they  strayed, 

Engrossed  in  converse  sweet  of  coming  hours, 
And  watched  the  rippling  currents  as  they  played, 

In  ebb  and  flow,  upon  the  banks  of  flowers : 
And  the  old  willow,  'neath  whose  spreading  shade 

She  owned  her  love — again  her  voice  he  hears, 
He  starts — alas  !  the  vision  only  fades 

To  leave  regretful  pangs  for  early  years. 

It  was  his  idle  vanity  that  changed 

The  pure,  deep  feelings  of  her  trusting  heart, 
Whose  faithful  love  riot  even  in  thought  had  ranged, 

But  worshipped  him,  from  all  the  world  apart: 
Now  cold  and  altered  is  her  beaming  eye, 

And  no  fond  hope  his  aching  bosom  cheers, 
That  she  wi  1  shed  one  tear,  or  breathe  one  sigh, 

For  him  she  loved  so  well  in  early  years. 

He  feels  she  scorns  him  with  a  bitter  scorn : 
He  questions  not  the  justice  of  his  fate, 

For  long  had  she  his  selfish  caprice  borne, 
And  wounded  pride  first  taught  her  how  to  hale. 


Oh,  ye  who  cast  away  a  heart's  deep  love, 

Remember,  ere  affection  disappears, 
That  keen  reproachful  throbs  your  soul  may  move 

Like  his  who  lives  to  mourn  life's  early  years  ! 


EVENING  THOUGHTS 

THE  evening  star,  with  mild  yet  radiant  light, 

Shines  clearly  'neath  the  young  moon's  pallid  cres'.. 
The  last  faint  gleam  of  crimson  sunset  fades 

In  mellowed  hues  of  brightness  from  the  west, 
Soft  shadows  fall  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 

And  steal  with  gradual  pace  o'er  wood  and  stream 
A  balmy  stillness  floats  upon  the  earth, 

And  life  is  peaceful  as  a  tranquil  dream. 

O  God,  whose  mantle  shades  this  lovely  world, 

And  leaves  a  ray  of  glorious  beauty  round ; 
In  that  far  home  where  angels  spread  their  wings, 

What  infinite  perfection  must  abound, 
What  visions  of  ecstatic,  wondrous  bliss, 

In  thy  sublime,  thy  awful  presence  dwell, 
When  in  this  sphere,  all  dimmed  by  sin  and  pain, 

Thy  gifts  of  light  and  love  words  may  not  tell ! 

Would  that  my  soul  each  wayward  pulse  could  still, 

That  I  might  know  thee,  Father,  as  thou  art — 
That  I  within  thy  paths  of  peace  might  walk, 

And  take  my  place  amid  the  "pure  in  heart;" 
Then  might  I  hope,  as  death's  dark  clouds  drew  near, 

Amid  the  deepening  gloom  thy  smile  to  see, 
But  oft  my  wandering  footsteps  guide  me  far 

From  out  the  way  that  leads  alone  to  thec 

What  if  we  view  upon  the  brink  of  wo, 

A  dazzling  gleam  steal  through  the  gates  of  heaven, 
And  feel  at  once,  while  close  its  pearly  doors, 

How  long  its  entrance  to  our  steps  was  given, 
Till,  in  the  utter  madness  of  our  souls, 

Our  last  taint  lingering  hope  in  silence  died, 
While  at  the  moment  of  our  dreadful  doom, 

Perchance,  we  basked  in  worldliness  and  pride. 

And  while  in  folly's  gilded  courts  I  stand, 

Is  this  my  fate  ?     Ah,  no  !  by  these  sad  tears, 
Plead  for  me,  Jesus,  meek  and  holy  one, 

For  thou  hast  shared  earth's  agonies  and  fears ; 
Thou  seest  the  struggles  of  my  changing  soul — 

Oh,  let  its  darker  thoughts  of  grief  depart, 
And  hear  my  prayer,  when,  kneeling  low,  I  crave 

Thy  words  of  truth  may  reach  my  troubled  heart 

Devoid  of  merit,  what  have  I  to  boast, 

When  man's  best  virtues  are  unworthy  thee  I 
Yet  in  thy  mercy  will  I  place  my  trust, 

And  in  the  Cross  my  hope  and  promise  see  , 
And  though  unresting  conscience  sternly  telis 

Of  talents  unemployed  and  wasted  powers, 
Lend  me  thine  aid,  and  to  thy  service,  Lord, 

I'll  dedicate  the  remnant  of  my  hours 


MARIA    LOWELL 


(Born  lS21-Died  1853). 


MARIA  WHITE,  the  daughter  of  an  opulent 
citizen  of  Watertown,  Massachusetts,  in  1844 
was  married  to  James  Russell  Lowell,  and 
for  her  genius,  taste,  and  many  admirable  per 
sonal  qualities,  she  is  worthy  to  be  the  wife 


of  that  fine  poet  and  true  hearted  man.  She 
has  published  several  elegant  translations 
from  the  German,  and  a  large  number  of  or  igi 
nal  poems  of  the  imagination,  some  of  which 
illustrate  questions  of  morals  and  humanity. 


JESUS  AND  THE  DOVE. 

With  patient  hand  Jesus  in  clay  on.  e  wrought, 
And  made  a  -mow*  ilove  that  upward  Hew. 

De-r  child,  from  all  things  draw  >,.n)e  holy  thought, 
That,  like  his  dove,  they  may  fly  upward  too. 

MARY,  the  mother  good  and  mild, 

Went  forth  one  summer's  day, 
That  Jesus  and  his  comrades  all 

In  meadows  green  might  play. 
To  find  the  brightest,  freshest  flowers, 

They  search  the  meadows  round, 
They  twined  them  all  into  a  wreath 

And  little  Jesus  crowned. 
Weary  with  play,  they  came  at  last 

And  sat  at  Mary's  feet, 
While  Jesus  asked  his  mother  dear 

A  story  to  repeat. 
"  And  we,"  said  one,  "  from  out  this  clay 

Will  make  some  little  birds ; 
So  shall  we  all  sit  quietly, 

And  heed  the  mother's  words." 
Then  Mary,  in  her  gentle  voice, 

Told  of  "a  little  child 
Who  lost  her  way  one  dark,  dark  night, 

Upon  a  dreary  wild  ; 
And  how  an  angel  came  to  her, 

And  mai!e  all  bright  around, 
And  took  the  trembling  little  one 

From  off  the  damp,  hard  ground ; 
And  how  he  bore  her  in  his  arms 

Up  to  the  blue  so  far, 
And  how  he  laid  her  last  asleep, 

Down  in  a  silver  star. 
The  children  sit  at  Mary's  feet, 

But  not  a  word  they  say. 
So  busily  their  finders  work 

To  mould  the  birds  of  clay. 
But  now  the  clay  that  Jesus  held, 

And  turned  unto  the  light, 
Aru\  moulded  with  a  patient  touch, 

Changed  to  a  perfect  white. 
And  slowly  grew  within  his  hands 

A  fair  and  gentle  dove. 
Whose  eyes  unclose,  whose  wings  unfold, 

Beneath  his  look  of  love. 
The  children  drop  their  birds  of  clay, 

And  by  bis  side  they  stand. 
To  look  upon  the  wondrous  dove 
He  holds  within  his  hand. 


And  when  he  bends  and  softly  breathes, 

Wide  are  the  wings  outspread ; 
And  when  he  bends  and  breathes  again, 

It  hovers  round  his  head. 
Slowly  it  rises  in  the  air 

Before  their  eager  eyes. 
And.  with  a  white  and  steady  wing, 

Higher  and  higher  flies. 
The  children  all  stretch  forth  their  arms 

As  if  to  draw  it  down  : 
"  Dear  Jesus  made  the  little  dove 

From  out  the  clay  so  brown — 
"  Canst  thou  not  live  with  us  below, 

Thou  little  dove  of  clay, 
And  let  us  hold  thee  in  our  hands, 

And  feed  thee  every  day  ] 
"  The  little  dove  it  hears  us  not, 

But  higher  still  doth  fly  ; 
It  could  not  live  with  us  below — 

Its  home  is  in  the  sky." 
Mary,  who  silently  saw  all — 

That  mother  true  and  mild — 
Folded  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 

And  kneeled  before  her  child. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  HARVEST. 

THERE  goeth  with  the  early  light 

Across  a  barren  plain, 
One  who,  with  face  as  morning  bright, 

Singeth,  "  I  come  again  : 

"  And  every  grain  I  scatter  free 

A  hundred  fold  shall  yield, 
Till  waveth  as  a  golden  sea 

This  dark  and  barren  field." 

She  casteth  seed  upon  the  ground, 
From  out  her  pure  white  hand, 

And  little  winds  steal  up  around 
To  bear  it  through  the  land. 

She  strikes  her  harp,  she  sings  her  song. 

She  sings  so  loud  and  clear — 
"  Arise,  arise,  ye  sleeping  throng, 

And  bud  and  blossom  here  !" 

When  o'er  the  hills  she  passed  away, 
The  Spring  remembered  her, 

And  came,  with  sun  and  air  of  May, 
The  barren  earth  to  stir. 

388 


MARIA    LOWELL. 


389 


And  falling  dew  the  spot  did  love, 

And  lingered  there  till  noon ; 
And  winds  and  rains  moved  on  above 

In  softly  changing  tune. 
So  when  the  Autumn  cometh  rour.d, 

The  golden  heads  bend  low. 
And  near  and  nearer  to  the  ground 

Their  royal  beard  doth  flow. 
The  poor  rejoice  :  in  throngs  they  come 

To  reap  the  dropping  grain ; 
Their  voices  rise  in  busy  hum — 

••  Who,  who  hath  sowed  the  plain] 
"  And  who  hath  wrought  such  bounteous  cheer 

Whore  all  before  was  dead  !" 
They  bless  the  unseen  giver  dear 

Who  sent  this  daily  bread. 
With  harp  in  hand,  a  maiden  bright 

Passed  slowly  by  the  throng; 
With  face  as  fair  as  sunset  light 

The  maiden  sang  her  song  : 
"  In  morning  time  I  sowed  this  plain — 

Blessed  the  evening  be, 
Which  gives  back  every  little  grain 

A  hundred  fold  to  me  !" 


SONG. 

OH,  Bird,  thou  dartest  to  the  sun 

When  morning  beams  first  spring, 
And  I,  like  thee.  would  swiftly  run, 

As  sweetly  would  I  sing; 
Thy  burning  heart  doth  draw  thee  up 

Unto  the  source  of  fire — 
Thou  drinkest  from  its  glowing  cup, 

And  quenchest  thy  desire. 

Oh,  Dew,  thou  droppest  soft  below 

And  plastest  all  the  ground ; 
Vet  when  the  noontide  comes,  I  know 

Thou  never  canst  be  found. 
I  would  like  thine  had  been  my  birth  ; 

Then  I,  without  a  sigh, 
Might  sleep  the  night  through  on  the  earth, 

To  waken  in  the  sky. 

Oh,  Clouds,  ye  little  tender  sheep, 

Pastured  in  fields  of  blue, 
While  moon  and  stars  your  fold  can  keep 

And  gently  shepherd  you — 
Let  me,  too,  follow  in  the  (rain 

That  Hocks  across  the  night, 
Or  lingers  on  the  open  plain 

With  new  washed  fleeces  white. 

Oh,  singina  Winds,  that  wander  far, 

Yet  always  seem  at  home, 
And  freely  play  'twixt  star  and  star 

Along  the  bending  dome — 
I  often  listen  to  your  song, 

Yet  never  hear  you  say 
One  word  of  a  1  the  happy  worlds 

That  shine. so  far  away. 
For  they  are  free,  ye  all  are  free — 

And  Bird,  and  Dew,  and  Light, 
Can  dart  upon  the  azure  sea, 

And  leave  me  to  my  night. 


Oh,  would  like  theirs  had  been  my  birth  : 

Then  I,  without  a  sigh, 
Might  sleep  this  night  through  on  the  earth. 

To  waken  in  the  sky. 


Trip:  MORNING-GLORY. 

WE  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head 

The  morning-glory  bright ; 
Her  little,  face  looked  out  beneath, 

So  full  of  life  and  light, 
So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise, 

That  we  could  only  say, 
"  She  is  the  morning-glory  true, 

And  her  poor  types  are  they.' 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 

We  called  her  by  their  name 
And  very  fitting  did  it  seem — 

For,  sure  as  morning  came, 
Behind  her  cradle  bars  she  smiled 

To  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 
As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower 

And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 

Their  airy  cups  of  blue, 
As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light, 

Brimmed  with  sleep's  tender  dew  ; 
And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 

Round  their  supports  are  thrown, 
As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched  plea 

Clasped  all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come, 

Even  as  comes  the  flower, 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 

To  crown  love's  morning  hour, 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 

The  love  we  could  not  say, 
As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 

Shines  back  the  heart  of  dov. 

We  never  could  have  thought,  0  God, 

That  she  must  wither  up. 
Almost  before  a  day  was  flown, 

Like  the  morning-glory's  cup ; 
We  never  thought  to  see  her  droop 

Her  fair  and  noble  head, 
Till  she  !ay  stretched  before  our  eyes, 

Wilted,  and  cold,  and  dead  ! 

The  mornintr-glory's  blossoming 

Will  soon  be  coming  round  : 
We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 

Upspringing  from  the  ground ; 
The  tender  things  the  winter  killed 

Renew  again  their  birth, 
But  the  glory  of  our  morning 

Has  passed  away  from  earth. 

Oh,  Earth !  in  vain  our  aching  eyes 

Stretch  over  thy  green  plain  ! 
Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air. 

Her  spirit  to  sustain  : 
But  up  in  groves  of  paradise 

Full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful 

Twine  round  our  dear  Lord's  kneo. 


SAEA   J.   LIPPIXCOTT. 


MRS.  LrrrrxcoTT,  known  as  "Grace 
Of  ><>n  wood,1'  was  born  of  New  England  pa 
rentage,  in  Onundaga,  an  agricultural  town 
near  the  city  of  Syracuse,  in  New  York.  At 
an  early  age  she  was  taken  to  Rochester, 
which  is  still  the  re.-idence  of  her  brother  and 
my  friend  of  many  years,  Mr.  J.  B.  Clarke, 
wiiose  success  in  the  law  shows  how  erro 
neous  is  i he  common  impression  that  literary 
studies  are  incompatible  wi.h  the  devotion  to 
business  necessary  to  professional  eminence. 
It  was  probably  the  displays  of  his  abilities, 
in  many  graceful  poems  and  prose  writings, 
that  led  Mrs.  Lippincott  to  the  cultivation 
of  her  tastes  and  powers  in  the  same  field. 
Certainly  it  was  a  great  advantage  to  have 
so  accomplished  a  critic,  bound  by  such 
bonds,  to  watch  over  her  earlier  essays,  and 
guard  her  from  the  dangers  to  which  youth 
ful  authorship  is  most  exposed.  In  a  recent 
letter  she  says  of  Rochester  :  "  It  was  for 
some  years  my  well-beloved  home;  here  it 
was  that  I  spent  my  few  school-days,  and 
received  my  trifle  of  book  knowledge.  It 
was  here  that  woman's  life  first  opened  up 
on  me,  not  as  a  romance,  not  as  a  fairy  dream, 
not  as  a  golden  heritage  of  beauty  and  of 
pleasure,  but  as  a  sphere  of  labor,  and  care, 
and  suffering ;  an  existence  of  many  efforts 
and  few  successes,  of  eager  and  great  aspira 
tions  and  slow  and  partial  realizations." 

The  parents  of  Mrs.  Lippincott  afterward 
removed  to  New  Brighton,  on  the  Beaver 
river,  two  miles  from  its  junction  with  the 
Ohio,  and  thirty  miles  below  Pittsburg  ;  and 
it  was  from  this  beautiful  village,  in  a  quiet 
valley,  surrounded  by  the  most  bold  and  pic 
turesque  scenery,  that  in  1844  she  wrote  the 
first  of  those  sprightly  and  brilliant  letters 
under  the  signature  of  "  Grace  Greenwood," 
by  which  she  was  introduced  to  the  literary 
world.  They  were  addressed  to  General  Mor 
ris  and  Mr.  Willis,  then  editors  of  the  New 
Mirror,  and  being  published  in  that  miscel 
lany,  the  question  of  their  authorship  was 
discussed  in  the  journals  and  in  literary  cir 
cles  ;  they  were  attributed  in  turn  to  the  most 
piquant  and  elegant  of  our  known  writers 


and  curiosity  was  in  no  degree  lessened  by 
intimations  that  they  were  by  some  Diana 
oi  the  West,  who,  like  the  ancient  goddess, 
inspired  the  men  who  saw  her  with  madness, 
and  in  her  chosen  groves  and  by  her  streams 
used  the  whip  and  rein  with  the  boldness  and 
grace  of  Mercury.  Such  secrets  are  not  ea 
sily  kept,  and  while  the  fair  magazinist  was 
visiting  the  Atlantic  cities,  in  1846,  the  veil 
was  thrown  aside  and  she  became  known  by 
her  proper  name.  She  has  since  been  among 
the  most  industrious  and  successful  of  our  au 
thors,  and  has  written  with  perhaps  equal 
facility  and  felicity  in  every  style  — 

"  From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe." 

Her  apprehensions  are  sudden  and  powerful. 
The  lessons  of  art  and  the  secrets  of  experi 
ence  have  no  mists  for  her  quick  eyes.  Ma 
ny-sided  as  Proteus,  she  yet  by  an  indomita 
ble  will  bends  all  her  strong  and  passionate 
nature  to  the  subject  that  is  present,  plucks 
from  it  whatever  it  has  of  mystery,  and 
weaves  it  into  the  forms  of  her  imagination, 
or  casts  it  aside  as  the  dross  of  a  fruitless 
analysis.  Educated  in  a  simple  condition 
of  society,  where  conventionalism  had  no 
authority  against  truth  and  reason,  and  the 
healthful  activity  of  her  mind  preserved  by 
an  admirable  physical  training  and  develop 
ment —  all  her  thought  is  direct  and  honest, 
and  her  sentiment  vigorous  and  cheerful. 
But  the  energy  of  her  character  and  intelli 
gence  is  not  opposed  to  true  delicacy.  A  fee 
ble  understanding,  and  a  nature  without  the 
elements  of  quick  and  permanent  decision, 
on  the  contrary,  can  not  take  in  the  noblest 
forms  of  real  or  ideal  beauty.  It  is  the  sham 
delicacy  that  is  shocked  at  things  actual  and 
necessary,  that  fills  the  magazines  with 
rhymed  commonplaces,  that  sacrifices  to  a 
prudish  nicety  all  individualism,  and  is  the 
chief  bar  to  aesthetic  cultivation  and  devel 
opment.  She  looks  with  a  poet's  eye  upon 
Nature,  and  with  a  poet's  soul  dares  and  as 
pires  for  the  beautiful,  as  it  is  understood  by 
all  the  great  intelligences  whose  wisdom 
ta.ke>  the  form  of  genius. 
It  is  as  a  prose  writer  that  Mrs.  Lippincoit 
390 


SARA   J.    LIPPINCOTT. 


391 


is  best  known,  and  it  may  be  that  her  prose 
compositions  have  more  individuality  and  il 
lustrate  a  wider  range  of  knowledge  and  re 


flection  than  her  poems,  but  the  author  of 
Ariadne  and  some  of  the  other  pieces  here 
quoted  has  given  a  name  to  other  ages. 


ARIADNE.* 

DAUGHTER  of  Crete — how  one  brief  hour, 
E'en  in  thy  young  love's  early  morn, 

Sends  storm  and  darkness  o'er  thy  bower — 
Oh  doomed,  oh  desolate,  oh  lorn  ! 

The  breast  which  pillowed  thy  fair  head, 
Rejects  its  burden — and  the  eye 
Wuich  looked  its  love  so  earnestly, 

Its  last  cold  glance  hath  on  thee  shed ; 

The  arms  which  were  thy  living  zone, 

Around  thee  closely,  warmly  thrown, 

Shall  others  clasp,  deserted  one  ! 

Yet,  Ariadne,  worthy  thou 

Of  the  dark  fate  which  meets  thee  now, 

For  thou  art  grovelling  in  thy  wo  : 

Arouse  thee  !  joy  to  bid  him  go ; 

For  god  above,  or  man  below, 

Whose  love's  warm  and  impetuous  tide 

Cold  interest  or  selfish  pride 

Can  chill,  or  stay,  or  turn  aside, 

Is  all  too  poor  and  mean  a  thing 

One  shade  o'er  woman's  brow  to  fling 

Of  grief,  regret,  or  fear ; 
To  cloud  one  morning's  go'.den  light — 
Disturb  the  sweet  dreams  of  one  night — 
To  cause  the  soft  flash  of  her  eye 
To  droop  one  moment  mournfully, 

Or  tremble  with  one  tear ! 

'Tis  thou  shouldst  triumph;  thou  art  free 
From  chains  which  bound  thee  for  a  while  ; 

This,  this  the  farewell  meet  for  thee, 
Proud  princess  on  that  lonely  isle : 

"  Go — to  thine  Athens  bear  thy  faithless  name  ; 

Go,  base  betrayer  of  a  holy  trust ! 
Oh,  I  could  bow  me  in  my  utter  shame, 

And  lay  my  crimson  forehead  in  the  dust, 
If  I  had  ever  loved  thee  as  thou  art, 
Folding  mean  falsehood  to  my  high,  true  heart ! 

"  But  thus  I  loved  thee  riot :  before  me  bowed 

A  being  glorious  in  majestic  pride, 
And  breathed  his  love,  and  passionately  vowed 

To  worship  only  me,  his  peerless  bride ; 
And  this  was  thou,  but  crowned,  enrobed,  entwined, 
With  treasures  borrowed  from  my  own  rich  mind  ! 
"  I  knew  thee  not  a  creature  of  my  dreams, 

And  my  rapt  soul  went  floating  into  thine ; 
My  love  around  thee  poured  such  halo-beams, 

Hadst  thou  been  true,  had  made  thee  all  divine. 
And  I,  too,  seemed  immortal  in  my  bliss, 
When  my  glad  lip  thrilled  to  thy  burning  kiss ! 


*  The  demigod  Theseus  having  won  the  love  of  Ariadne", 
daughter  of  the  king  of  Crete,  deserted  her  OH  the  isle  of 

Naxos.     In  Miss  Bremer's  H Family,  the  blind  girl 

is  described  as  singing  "Ariadne  a  Naxos,""  in  which  Ari 
adne  is  represented  a-  following  Theseus,  climbing  a  high 
rock  to  watch  his  departing  vessel,  and  calling  upon  him 
iu  her  despairing  anguish. 


"  Shrunken  and  shrivelled  into  Theseus  now 

Thou  standst :  behold,  the  gods  have  blown  away 
The  airy  crown  that  glittered  on  thy  brow — 

The  gorgeous  robes  which  wrapped  thee  for  a  day; 
Around  thee  scarce  one  fluttering  fragment  clings — 
A  poor  lean  beggar  in  all  glorious  things ! 
"  Nor  will  I  deign  to  cast  on  thee  my  hate — 

It  were  a  ray  to  tinge  with  splendor  still 
The  dull,  dim  twilight  of  thy  after-fate — 

Thou  shalt  pass  from  me  like  a  dream  of  ill — 
Thy  name  be  but  a  thing  that  crouching  stole 
Like  a  poor  thief,  all  noiseless  from  my  soul ! 
"  Though  thou  hast  dared  to  steal  the  sacred  flame 

From  out  that  soul's  high  heaven,  she  sets  thee  free; 
Or  only  chains  thee  with  thy  sounding  shame: 

Her  memory  is  no  Caucasus  for  thee ; 
And  e'en  her  hovering  hate  would  o'er  thee  fling 
Too  much  of  glory  from  its  shadowy  wing ! 
"  Thou  thinkst  to  leave  my  life  a  lonely  night — 

Ha !  it  is  night  ail  glorious  with  its  stars ! 
Hopes  yet  unclouded  beaming  forth  their  light, 

And  free  thoughts  rolling  in  their  silver  cars ! 
And  queenly  pride,  serene,  and  cold,  and  high, 
Moves  the  Diana  of  its  calm,  clear  sky  ! 
"  If  poor  and  humbled  thou  believest  me, 

Mole  of  a  demigod,  how  blind  art  thou ! 
For  I  am  rich — in  scorn  to  pour  on  thee  : 

And  gods  shall  bend  from  high  Olympus'  brow. 
And  gaze  in  wonder  on  my  lofty  pride ; 
Naxos  be  hallowed,  I  be  deified  !" 

On  the  tall  cliff  where  cold  and  pale 

Thou  watchest  his  receding  sail, 

Where  thou,  the  daughter  of  a  king, 

Wailst  like  a  wind-harp's  breaking  string, 

Bendst  like  a  weak  and  wilted  flower 

Before  a  summer  evening's  shower — 

There  shouldst  thou  rear  thy  royal  form, 

Like  a  young  oak  amid  the  storm, 
Uncrushed,  unbowed,  unriven  ! 

Let  thy  last  glance  burn  through  the  air, 

And  fall  far  down  upon  him  there, 
Like  lightning  stroke  from  heaven  ! 

There  shouldst  thou  mark  o'er  billowy  crest 
His  white  sail  flutter  and  depart; 

No  wild  fears  surging  at  thy  breast, 

No  vain  hopes  quivering  round  thy  hearl  5 

And  this  brief,  burning  prayer  alone 

Leap  from  thy  lips  to  Jove's  high  throne : 

"Just  Jove!  thy  wratchful  vengeance  stay. 

And  speed  the  traitor  on  his  way ; 

Make  vain  the  siren's  silver  song, 

Let  nereids  smile  the  wave  along — 

O'er  the  wild  waters  send  his  bark 

Like  a  swift  arrow  to  its  mark  ! 

Let  whirlwinds  gather  at  his  back, 

And  diive  him  on  his  dastard  track; 

Let  thy  red  bolts  behind  him  burn, 

And  blabt  him,  should  he  dare  to  turn  !" 


392 


SARA   J.    LIPPINCOTT. 


DREAMS. 

TIIF.HK  was  a  season  when  I  loved 

The  calm  and  holy  night, 
When  like  yon  silvery  evening  star, 

Just  trembling  on  our  sight, 
My  spirit  through  its  heaven  of  dreams 

Went  floating  forth  in  light. 

Night  is  the  time  when  Nature  seems 

God's  silent  worshipper; 
And  ever  with  a  chastened  heart 

In  unison  with  her, 
[  laid  me  on  my  peaceful  couch, 

The  day's  dull  cares  resigned, 
And  let  my  thoughts  fold  up  like  flowers, 

In  the  twilight  of  the  mind : 
Fast  round  me  closed  the  shades  of  sleep, 

And  then  burst  on  my  sight 
Visions  of  glory  arid  of  love, 

The  stars  of  slumber's  night ! 
Dreams,  wondrous  dreams,  which  far  around 

Did  such  rich  radiance  fling, 
As  the  sudden,  first  unfurling 

Of  a  young  angel's  wing. 

Then  sometimes  blessed  beings  came, 

Parting  the  midnight  skies, 
And  bore  me  to  their  shining  homes, 

The  bowers  of  paradise  ; 
I  felt  my  worn,  world-wearied  soul 

Bathed  in  divine  repose — 
My  earth-chilled  heart  in  the  airs  of  heaven 

Unfolding  as  a  rose. 

Nor  were  my  dreams  celestial  all, 

For  oft  along  my  way 
Clustered  the  scenes  and  joys  of  home, 

The  loves  of  every  day : 
Soft,  alter  angel-music,  still 

The  voices  round  my  hearth — 
Sweet,  alter  paradisean  flowers, 

The  violets  of  earth. 

But  now  I  dread  the  night:   it  holds 

Within  its  weary  bounds 
Strife,  griefs,  and  fears,  red  battle-fields, 

And  spectre-haunted  grounds ! 

One  night  there  sounded  through  my  dreams 

A  trumpet's  stirring  peal, 
And  then  methought  I  went  forth  armed, 

And  clad  in  glittering  steel — 
And  sprang  upon  a  battle-steed, 

And  led  a  warrior  band, 
And  we  swept,  a  flood  of  fire  and  death, 

Victorious  through  the  land  ! 

(Mi,  what  wild  rapture  'twas  to  mark 

My  serried  ranks  advance, 
And  see  amid  the  foe  go  down 

Banner,  and  plume,  and  lance  ! 
The  living  trampled  o'er  the  dead — 

The  fallen,  line  on  line, 
Were  crushed  like  grapes  at  vintage  time, 

And  blood  was  poured  like  wine! 
My  sword  was  dripping  to  its  hilt, 

And  this  small,  girlish  hand 


Planted  the  banner,  lit  the  torch, 
And  waved  the  stern  rommand. 

How  swelled  and  burned  within  rny  heart 
Fierce  hate  and  fiery  pride — 

My  very  soul  rode  like  a  bark 
On  the  battle's  stormy  tide  ! 

Mi/  pitying  and  all-woman's  soul — 

Oh  no,  it  was  not  mine  ! 
Perchance  mine  slumbered,  or  had  left 

Awhile  its  carth'y  shrine ; 
So  the  spirit  of  a  Joan  d'Arc 

Stole  in  my  sleeping  frame, 
And  wrote  her  history  on  my  heart 

la  words  of  blood  and  flame. 

My  dead  are  with  me  in  my  dreams, 

Rise  from  their  still,  lone  home — 
But  are  they  as  I  loved  them  here  ] 

O  Heaven,  'tis  thus  they  come  ! 
Silent  and  cold,  the  pulseless  form 

In  burial  garments  dressed, 
The  pale  hands  holding  burial-flowers 

Close  folded  on  their  breast ! 

My  living — they  in  whose  tried  hearts 

My  wild,  impassioned  love 
Foldeth  its  wings  contentedJy, 

And  nestles  as  a  dove — 
They  come,  they  hold  me  in  their  arms ; 

My  heart,  with  joy  oppressed, 
Seems  panting  'neath  its  blessed  weight, 

And  swooning  in  my  breast ; 

My  eyes  look  up  through  tears  of  bliss, 

Like  flowers  through  dews  of  even, 
There's  a  painful  fulness  in  my  lips, 

Till  the  kiss  of  love  is  given : 
When  sudden  their  fresh,  glowing  lips 

Are  colorless  and  cold, 
And  an  icy,  shrouded  corse  is  all 

My  shuddering  arms  enfold  ! 

Have  I  my  guardian  angels  grieved, 

That  they  have  taken  flight  1 
Or  frown'st  thou  on  me,  oh  my  God ! 

In  the  visions  of  the  night  ] 
Yet  with  a  child's  fond  faith  I  rest 

Still  on  thy  fatherhood  ; 
Speak  peace  unto  my  troubled  dreams. 

Thou  merciful  and  good ! 

And  oh  !  if  cares  and  griefs  must  come, 

And  throng  my  humble  wray, 
Then  let  me,  strengthened  and  refreshed, 

Strive  with  them  in  the  day ; 
This  glorious  world  which  thou  hast  made, 

Spread  out  in  bloom  before  me, 
Thy  blessed  sunshine  on  my  path, 

Thy  radiant  skies  hung  o'er  me. 

But  when,  like  ghosts  of  the  sun's  lost  rays, 

Come  down  the  moonbeams  pale, 
And  the  dark  earth  lies  like  an  eastern  bride 

Beneath  her  silvery  veil — 
Then  let  the  night,  with  its  silence  deep, 

Its  dews,  and  its  starry  gleams, 
Be  peace,  and  rest,  and  love — O  God, 

Smile  on  me  in  my  dreams ! 


SARA   J.    LIPPINCOTT. 


393 


ILLUMINATION, 

FOR  THE  TRIUMPH  OF  OUR  ARMS  IN  MEXICO. 

LIGHT  up  thy  homes,  Columbia, 

For  those  chivalric  men 
Who  bear  to  scenes  of  warlike  strife 

Thy  conquering  arms  again  ; 
Where  glorious  victories,  flash  on  flash, 

Reveal  their  stormy  way — 
Resaca's,  Palo  Alto's  fields, 

The  heights  of  Monterey  ! 

They  pile  with  thousands  of  thy  foes 

Buena  Vista's  plain  ; 
With  maids,  and  wives,  a   Vera  Cruz, 

Swell  high  the  list  of  slain; 
They  paint  upon  the  southern  skies 

The  blaze  of  burning  domes — 
Their  laurels  dew  with  blood  of  babes : 

Light  up,  light  up  thy  homes ! 

Light  up  your  homes,  oh  fathers ! 

For  those  young  hero  bands 
Whose  march  is  still  through  vanquished  towns 

And  over  conquered  lands ; 
Whose  valor  wild,  impetuous, 

In  all  its  fiery  glow 
Pours  onward  like  a  lava-tide, 

And  sweeps  away  the  foe  ! 

For  those  whose  dead  brows  Glory  crowns, 

On  crimson  couches  sleeping ; 
And  for  home  faces  wan  with  grief, 

And  fond  eyes  dim  with  weeping : 
And  for  the  soldier,  poor,  unknown, 

Who  battled  madly  brave, 
Beneath  a  stranger-soil  to  share 

A  shallow,  crowded  grave. 

Light  up  thy  home,  young  mother ! 

Then  gaze  in  pride  and  joy 
Upon  those  fair  and  gentle  girls, 

That  eagle-eyed  young  boy  ; 
And  clasp  thy  darling  little  one 

Yet  closer  to  thy  breast, 
And  be  thy  kisses  on  its  lips 

In  yearning  love  impressed. 
In  yon  beleaguered  city 

Were  homes  as  sweet  as  thine ; 
There  trembling  mothers  felt  loved  arms 

In  fear  around  them  twine  ; 
The  lad  with  brow  of  ciive  hue, 

The  babe  like  lily  fair, 
The  maiden  with  her  midnight  eyes 

And  wealth  of  raven  hair. 
The  booming  shot,  the  murderous  shell, 

Crashed  through  the  crumbling  walls, 
And  fi.led  with  agony  and  death 

Those  sacred  household  halls ; 
Then,  bleeding,  crushed,  and  blackened,  lay 

The  sister  by  the  brother, 
And  the  torn  infant  gasped  and  writhed 

On  the  bosom  of  the  mother ! 
Oh.  sisters,  if  you  have  no  tears 

For  fearful  scenes  like  these ; 
If  the  banners  of  the  victors  veil 

The  victims'  agonies; 


If  ye  lose  the  babe  s  ana  mother's  cry 

In  the  noisy  roll  of  drums ; 
If  your  hearts  with  martial  pride  throb  high — 

Light  up,  light  up  your  homes ! 

THE  LAST  GIFT. 

I  LEAVE  thee,  love :  in  vain  hast  thou 

The  God  of  life  implored ; 
My  clinging  soul  is  torn  from  thine, 

My  faithful,  my  adored  \ 
My  last  gift — I  have  on  it  breathed 

In  blessing  and  in  prayer ; 
So  lay  it  close,  close  to  thy  heart, 

This  little  lock  of  hair ! 

I  know  thou  wilt  think  tenderly 

And  lovingly  on  me  ; 
Thou  wilt  forget  my  waywardness 

When  I  am  gone  from  thee ; 
Thou  wilt  remember  all  my  love, 

Which  made  thee  think  me  fair ; 
Thou  wilt  with  many  tears  begem 

This  little  lock  of  hair ! 

And  yet  at  last,  thy  grief's  wild  storm 

WTill  sigh  itself  to  rest ; 
And  thou  mayst  choose  another  love, 

And  clasp  her  to  thy  breast : 
But  when  she  hides  her  glowing  face 

In  tearful  gladness  there, 
Oh,  do  not  let  ner  hand  displace 

This  little  lock  of  hair ! 

The  dark,  rich  hue  thou  oft  hast  praised, 

The  ringlet  still  shall  hold  ; 
Still,  as  the  sunlight  on  it  falls, 

Give  out  quick  gleams  of  gold : 
Though  years  roll  by,  no  trace  of  change 

Its  glossy  rings  shall  wear — 
It  never  will  grow  gray,  beloved, 

This  little  lock  of  hair ! 

And  when  the  earth  weighs  chill  and  damp 

Above  my  resting-place, 
When  fall  moist  tresses  heavily 

Around  my  cold,  dead  face — 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  a  part  of  me 

Thine  own  life-glow  may  share — 
Thou 'It  keep  it  warm,  love,  always  warm, 

This  little  lock  of  hair  ! 

Ah,  dearest !  see  how  pale  and  cold 

Has  grown  this  hand  of  mine  ! 
No  longer  now  it  glows  and  thrills 

Within  the  clasp  of  thine. 
I  go  ! — soon  where  my  dying  head 

Is  pillowed  with  fond  care, 
No  trace  of  me  shall  linger,  save 

This  little  lock  of  hair  ! 
I  see  thee  not !  I  faintly  fee! 

The  fast  tears  thou  dost  weep  5 
Kiss  down  my  quivering  eyelids,  lovd. 

Thus,  thus,  and  I  will  sleep. 
I  go  where  angels  beckon  me, 

I  go  their  heaven  to  share — 
Yet  with  a  longing  envy  leave 

This  little  lock  of  hair  ' 


3'J4 


SARA    J.   LIPPING  OTT. 


A  LOVER  TO  HIS  FAITHLESS  MISTRESS. 

THOU  false !  thy  voice  is  in  mine  ear; 

The  love-looks  of  thine  eyes, 
To  meet  my  gaze  most  passionate, 

In  dreamy  softness  rise  ; 
I  feel  the  beating  of  thy  heart — 

I  breathe  thy  perfumed  sighs ! 

Thou  false  !  thy  thrilling  fingers  part 

The  locks  from  off  my  brow; 
And  on  these  lips,  where  live  no  more 

Fond  prayer  and  burning  vow, 
The  wine  and  honey  of  thy  kiss 

Are  lingering  even  now. 

I  mock  myself  with  visions  vain: 

Another  life  than  mine 
Bathes  in  the  rose-light  of  thv  love ; 

Blush,  tone,  and  glance  of  thine, 
Are  pouring  through  another  heart 

A  tide  of  life  divine  ! 

At  last  I  know  thee — and  my  soul, 

From  all  thy  spells  set  free, 
Abjures  the  cold,  consummate  art 

Shrined  as  a  soul  in  thee, 
Priestess  of  falsehood — deeply  learned 

In  all  heart-treachery  ! 

Yet  look  thou  on  me,  if  thine  eyes 

May  dare  again  to  scan 
A  face  where  honor  is  not  masked, 

Nor  truth  put  under  ban — 
Wouldst  know  me  for  that  poor,  sad  thing, 

A  spirit-broken  man  ] 

Ay,  look  ! — is  not  this  head  yet  borne 

Full  haughtily  and  high] 
Is  this  lip  tremulous  with  sighs, 

Or  pale  with  agony  ? 
And  wouldst  thou  feel  a  prouder  fire 

Outflashing  from  mine  eye  ] 

Each  lingering,  murmuring  thought  of  love, 

The  heart  which  thou  hast  riven 
Crushes  to  silence — each  regret 

For  false  joys  thou  hast  given, 
And  flings  thy  very  memory 

To  all  the  winds  of  heaven ! 
Go,  lavish  on  another  now 

Thy  frothy  love's  excess  ; 
Go  measure  out  thy  practised  words 

Of  lip-deep  tenderness ; 
Go  dupe  him  with  thy  well-trained  smiles, 

Thy  meaningless  caress ! 

Leave  him  in  trusting  folly  blest — 

Enchant,  enchain  him  still — 
Awake  his  most  adoring  thoughts, 

Make  every  heartstring  thrill, 
Hold  thou  his  life  and  very  soul 

The  blind  slaves  of  thy  will ! 

I  give  thee  joy :  thou  hear'st  fond  lips 

A  new  love's  tale  repeating ; 
Thine  every  glance  wealth's  pomp  and  glare 

And  glittering  gauds  are  meeting, 
And  merrily  to  the  ring  of  coin 

Thy  hollow  heart  is  beating 


Thou  workest  miracles,  fair  saint, 
Not  found  in  legends  old  : 

Thy  showers  of  silver  tears  return 
To  thee  in  showers  of  gold  ; 

Thy  melting  kisses  change  to  gems, 
Sweet  lady  bought  and  sold  ! 


HRRVEY  TO  NINA. 

SUGGESTED   I5Y  A   1'ASSAGE  IX  FHEDERIKA  BREMER 

DIVIDED  in  our  lives,  and  yet  twin-hearted, 

Our  sad  first  parents  shared  a  happier  fate ; 
When  from  Love's  Eden,  dearest,  we  departed, 

'T  was  ours  to  sever  at  the  outer  gate. 
Ah,  yet  I  know  whatever  path  thou'rt  tracing, 

Thy  tearful  eye  is  sometimes  backward  cast,; 
Thou  art  not  coldly  from  thy  heart  effacing 

The  thrilling  story  of  our  blissful  past — 

When  life  was  like  a  sunset's  glories  btended 

With  all  the  waking  splendors  of  the  morn  ;  [ed, 
And  when,  dear  love,  if  some  light  showers  descend- 

It  seemed  'twas  but  that  rainbows  might  be  born. 
Oh  warm,  oh  beautiful,  oh  glorious  season, 

Like  the  first  blushing  time  of  Cashmere's  roses! 
My  soul  forgets  cold  truth  and  worldly  reason, 

And  in  thy  lap  of  languid  joy  reposes. 
In  reveries  delicious  I  revisit 

Each  spot  where  Love's  impassioned  tale  was  to'd ; 
Where  moments  passed  of  pleasure  so  exquisite, 

Time  should  have  marked  their  flight  with  sands  of 
gold. 

Again  upon  my  throbbing  breast  thon'rt  leaning, 

Oh,  fond  y,  wildly  loved  one — oh,  adored  ! 
Again  come  back  thy  words  of  tenderest  meaning, 

That  once  such  raptures  through  my  bosom  poured. 
Again  I  feel  the  wish,  intense  and  burning, 

To  live  within  thy  life,  to  drink  thine  air ; 
That  deep,  mysterious,  and  mighty  yearning 

Would  draw  me  down  from  heaven,  wert  thou  not 
there. 

A  fount  there  was  within  each  bosom  flowing, 

That  gushed  not  water,  but  love's  purple  wine ; 
Sparkling  with  rapture  and  with  passion  glowing, 

It  maketh  mortals  for  a  space  divine. 
'T  was  joy  to  know  thee  of  that  fountain  drinking 

Within  my  soul  upspringing  but  for  thee ; 
And  I  of  thine  as  deeply,  all  unthinking 

There  might  be  madness  in  that  draught  for  me 
When  all  of  b'iss  the  earth-born  may  inherit 

Divinely  lavish  was  around  us  thrown, 
And  when  the  mystic  union  of  the  spirit 

Had  twined  our  glowing  beings  into  one — 
Then  were  we  parted :  Hope's  ecstatic  vision 

Grewdim  with  tears, and  Joy'syoun^  pinion  furled 
Pillowed  on  flowers,  we  had  a  dream  Elysian, 
And  we  have  wakened  in  a  stormy  world  ! 
Gone,  gone,  for  ever  !  we  beheld  it  v.inish, 

As  a  warm  cloud  melts  in  the  b'ue  above; 
Yet  from  our  souls  no  power  create  can  banish 

The  golden  memory  of  that  dream  of  love! 


SARA  J.   LIPPINCOTT. 


395 


CANST  THOU  FORGET? 

CANST  them  forget,  beloved,  our  first  awaking 
From  out  the  .shadowy  realm  of  doubts  and  dreams, 

To  know  Love's  perfect  sunlight  round  us  breaking, 
Bathing  our  beings  in  its  gorgeous  gleams — 
Canst  thou  forget  1 

A  sky  of  rose  and  gold  was  o'er  us  glowing, 
Around  us  was  the  morning  breath  of  May ; 

Then  met  our  soul-tides,  thence  together  flowing, 
Then  kissed  our  thought-waves,  mingling  on  their 
way  :  Canst  thou  forget  1 

Canst  thou  forget  when  first  thy  loving  fingers 
Laid  gently  back  the  locks  upon  my  brow  1 

Ah,  to  my  woman's  thought  that  touch  still  lingers 
And  softly  glides  along  my  forehead  now ! 

Canst  thou  forget? 

Canst  thou  forget  when  every  twilight  tender, 
Mid  dews  and  sweets,  beheld  our  slow  steps  rove. 

And  when  the  nights  which  came  in  starry  splendor 
Seemed  dim  and  pallid  to  our  heaven  of  love  1 
Canst  thou  forget] 

Canst  thou  forget  the  childlike  heart-outpouring 
Of  her  whose  fond  faith  knew  no  faltering  fears'! 

The  lashes  drooped  to  veil  her  eyes  adoring, 
Her  speaking  silence,  and  her  blissful  tears  1 
Canst  thou  forget  1 

Canst  thou  forget  the  last  most  mournful  meeting1, 
The  trembling  form  clasped  to  thine  anguished 

breast, 

The  heart  against  thine  own,  now  wildly  beating, 
Now  fluttering  faint,  grief-wrung,  and  fear-op 
pressed —  Canst  thou  forget  1 

Canst  thou  forget,  though  all  Love's  spells  be  broken, 
The  wild  farewell  which  rent  our  souls  apart! 

And  that  last  gift,  Affection's  holiest  token, 
The  severed  tress,  which  lay  upon  thy  heart — • 
Canst  thou  forget  1 

Canst  thou  forget,  beloved  one — comes  there  never 
The  angel  of  sweet  visions  to  thy  rest  1 

Brings  she  not  back  the  fond  hopes  fled  for  ever, 
While  one  lost  name  thrills  through  thy  sleeping 
breast —  Canst  thou  forget  1 


INVOCATION  TO  MOTHER  EARTH. 

On,  Earth !  thy  face  hath  not  the  grace 

That  smiling  Heaven  did  bless, 
When  thou  wert  "  good,"  and  blushing  stood 

In  thy  young  loveliness ; 
And,  mother  dear,  the  smile  and  tear 

In  thee  are  strangely  met ; 
Thy  joy  and  wo  together  flow — 

But  ah  !  we  love  thee  yet. 

Thou  still  art  fair,  when  morn's  fresh  air 
Thrills  with  the  lark's  sweet  song ; 

When  Nature  seems  to  wake  from  dreams, 
And  laugh  and  dance  along ; 

Thou'rt  fair  at  day,  when  clouds  all  gray 
Fade  into  glorious  blue  ; 


When  sunny  Hours  fly  o'er  the  flowers, 
And  kiss  away  the  dew. 

Thou  'rt  fair  at  eve,  when  skie»  receive 

The  last  smiles  of  the  sun ; 
When  through  the  shades  that  twilight  spreads 

The  stars  peep,  one  by  one ; 
Thou  'rt  fair  at  night,  when  full  starlight 

Streams  down  upon  the  sod ; 
When  moonlight  pale  on  hill  and  dale 

Rests  like  the  smile  of  God. 

And  thou  art  grand,  where  lakes  expand, 

And  mighty  rivers  roll ; 
WThere  Ocean  proud  with  threatenings  loud 

Mocketh  at  man's  control ; 
And  grand  thou  art  when  lightnings  dart 

And  gleam  athwart  the  sky ; 
When  thunders  peal,  and  forests  reel, 

And  storms  go  sweeping  by  ! 

We  bless  thee  now,  for  gifts  that  thou 

Hast  freely  on  us  shed  ; 
For  dew  and  showers,  and  beauteous  bowers. 

And  blue  skies  overhead  ; 
For  morn's  perfume,  and  midday's  bloom, 

And  evening's  hour  of  mirth  ; 
For  glorious  night,  for  all  things  bright, 

We  bless  thee,  Mother  Earth ! 

But  when  long  years  of  care  and  tears 

Have  come  and  passed  away, 
The  time  may  be,  when  sadly  we 

Shall  turn  to  thee.  and  say  : 
"  WTe  are  worn  with  life,  its  toils  and  strife, 

We  long,  we  pine  for  rest ; 
We  come,  we  come,  all  wearied  home — 

Room,  mother,  in  thy  breast !" 


"THERE  WAS  A  ROSE." 

THKIIT.  was  a  rose,  that  blushing  grew 

Within  my  life's  young  bower ; 
The  angels  sprinkled  holy  dew 

Upon  the  blessed  flower  : 
I  glory  to  resign  it,  love, 

Though  it  was  dear  to  me ; 
Amid  thy  laurels  twine  it,  love, 

It  only  blooms  for  thee. 

There  was  a  rich  and  radiant  gem 

I  long  kept  hid  from  sight, 
Lost  from  some  seraph's  diadem — 

It  shone  with  Heaven's  own  light ! 
The  world  could  never  tear  it,  love, 

That  gem  of  gems  from  me ; 
Yet  on  thy  fond  breast  wear  it,  love, 

It  only  shines  for  thee. 

There  was  a  bird  came  to  my  breast, 

When  I  was  very  young; 
I  only  knew  that  sweet  bird's  nest, 

To  me  she  only  sung ; 
But,  ah  !  one  summer  day,  love, 

I  saw  that  bird  depart : 
The  truant  flew  thy  way,  love, 

And  nestled  in  thy  heart 


396 


SARA   J.   LIPPINCOTT. 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LOVE. 

THE  sculptor  paused  before  his  finished  work — 
A  wondrous  statue  of  divinest  mould. 
Jake  Cytherea's  were  the  rounded  limbs, 
The  hands,  in  whose  soft  fulness,  still  and  deep, 
Like  Bleeping  Loves,  the  chiseled   dimples  lay, 
The  ha  r  s  rich  fall,  the  lip's  exquisite  curve  ; 
But  most  like  Juno's  were  the  brow  of  pride, 
And  loft,   bearing  of  the  matchless  head. 
While  over  all,  a  mystic  holiness, 
Like  Di  tn's  purest  smile,  aroun  1  her  hung, 
And  hushed  the  idle  gazer,  like  the  air 
Which  haunts  at  night  the  temples  of  the  gods. 

As  stood  the  sculptor,  with  still  folded  arms, 
And  viewed  this  shape  of  rarest  loveliness, 
No  Hush  of  triumph  crimsoned  o'er  his  brow, 
Nor  grew  his  dark  eye  luminous  with  joy. 
Heart-crushed  wit'i  grief,  worn  with  intense  desires, 
And  wasting  with  a  mal,  consuming  fla.ne, 
He  wildly  gazed— his  cold  cheek  rivalling 
The  whiteness  of  the  marble  he  had  wrought. 
The  robe's  loose  folds  which  lay  upon  his  breast 
Tumultuous  rJse  and  fell,  like  ocean-waves 
Upheaved  by  storms  beneath ;  and  on  his  brow, 
In  beaded  drops,  the  dew  of  anguish  lay. 
And  thus  he  flung  himself  upon  the  earth, 
And  poured  in  prayer  his  wi'd  and  burning  words  : 

"  Great  Jove,  to  thy  high  throne  a  mortal's  prayer 
In  all  the  might  of  anguish  struggles  up ! 
Thou  see'st  this  statue,  chiseled   by  mv  hand — 
Thou  hast  beheld,  as  day  by  day  it  grew 
To  more  than  earthly  beauty,  till  it  stood 
The  wjn  ler  of  the  glorious  world  of  art. 
The  sculptor  wrought  not  blindly  :  oft  there  came 
Biest  visions  to  his  soul  of  forms  divine; 
Of  white-armed  Juno,  in  that  hour  of  love, 
"When  fondling  close  the  cu-koo,  tempest-chilled, 
She  all  unconscious  in  that  form  did  press 
The  mighty  sire  of  the  eternal  gods 
To  her  soft  bosom  ! — Aphrodite  fair 
As  first  she  trod  the  g!ad,  enamored  earth 
With  small,  white  feet,  spray-dripping  from  the  sea ; 
Of  crested  Dian,  when  her  nightly  kiss 
Piessei  down  the  eyelids  of  Endymion — 
Her  silvery  presence  making  all  the  air 
Of  dewy  Latinos  tremulous  with  love. 

"  And  now  (deem  not  thy  suppliant  impious, 
Our  being's  source,  thou  Father  of  all  life,) 
A  wild,  o'ermastering  passion  fires  my  soul ; 
I  madly  love  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought! 
Intoxicate,  I  gaze  through  all  the  day, 
And  mocking  visions  haunt  my  conch  at  night; 
My  heart  is  faint  and  sick  with  longings  vain, 
A  passionate  thirst  is  parching  up  my  life. 

"  I  call  upm  her,  and  she  answers  not! 
The  fond  love-na-nes  I  breathe  into  her  ear 
Are  met  with  maddening  silence ;  when  I  clasp 
Those  slender  fingers  in  my  fevered  bund, 
Their  coldness  chills  me  like  the  touch  of  death' 
And  when  my  heart's  wild  beatings  shake  my  frame, 
And  pain  my  breast  with  love's  sweet  agony, 
No  faintest  throb  that  marble  bosom  stirs  ! 

"  Oh,  I  would  have  an  eye  to  gaze  in  mine ; 
A.n  ear  to  listen  for  my  coming  step ; 


A  voice  of  love,  with  tones  like  Joy's  own  bells, 
To  ring  their  silver  changes  on  mine  ear ; 
A  yielding  hand,  to  thrill  within  mine  own, 
And  lips  of  me' ting  sweetness,  full  and  warm  ! 
Would  change  this  deathless  stone  to  mortal  flesh, 
And  barter  immorta  ity  for  love! 

"  If  voice  of  earth,  in  wildest  prayer,  may  reach 
To  godho:)d,  throned  amid  the  purple  clouds, 
To  animate  this  cold  and  pulseless  stone, 
Grant  thou  one  breath  of  that  immortal  air 
WThich  feedeth  human  life  from  age  to  age, 
And  floats  round  high  Olympus. — Hear,  O  Jove ! 

"And  so  this  form  mav  shrine  a  soul  of  light, 
Whose  starry  radiance  sha'l  unseal  these  eyes, 
Send  down  the  sky's  b'.ue  deeps,  0  Sire  divine — 
One  faintest  gleam  of  that  benignant  smile 
Which  glows  upon  the  faces  of  the  gods, 
And  lights  all  heaven. — Hear,  mighty  Jove  !" 

He  stayed  his  prayer,  and  on  his  statue  gazed. 
Behold,  a  gentle  heaving  stirred  its  breast ! 
O'er  all  the  form  a  flush  of  rose-light  passed ; 
Along  the  limbs  the  azure  arteries  throbbed ; 
A  golden  lustre  settled  on  the  head, 
Arid  gleamed  amid  the  meshes  of  the  hair; 
The  rounded  cheek  grew  vivid  with  a  blush ; 
Ambrosial  breathings  cleft  the  curved  lips, 
And  softly  through  the  arched  nostril  stole; 
The  fringed  lids  quivered  and  uprose,  and  eyes 
Like  violets  wet  with  dew  drank  in  the  light. 

Moveless  she  stood,  until  her  wandering  glance 
Upon  the  rapt  face  of  the  sculptor  fell : 
Bewildered  and  abashed,  it  sank  beneath 
The  burning  gaze  of  his  adoring  eyes. 
And  then  there  ran  through  all  her  trembling  frame 
A  strange,  sweet  thrill  of  blissful  consciousness: 
Life's  wildest  joy,  in  one  delicious  tide, 
Poured  through  the  channels  of  her  newborn  heart, 
And  Love's  first  sigh  rose  quivering  from  her  breast ! 

She  turned  upon  her  pedestal,  and  smiled, 
And  toward  the  kneeling  youth  bent  tenderly. 
He  rose,  sprang  forward  with  a  passionate  cry, 
And  joyously  outstretched  his  thrilling  arms ; 
And  lo !  the  form  he  sculptured  from  the  stone, 
Instinct  with  life,  and  radiant  with  soul, 
A  breathing  shape  of  beauty,  soft  and  warm, 
Of  mortal  womanhood,  all  smiles  and  tears, 
In  love's  sweet  trance  upon  his  bosom  lay. 


THE  DREAM. 

LAST  night,  my  love,  I  dreamed  of  thee — 

Yet  't  was  no  dream  elysian  ; 
Draw  closer  to  my  breast,  dear  Blanche, 

The  while  I  tell  the  vision: 
Methought  that  I  had  left  thee  long, 

And,  home  in  haste  returning — 
My  heart,  lip,  cheek,  with  love  and  joy 

And  wild  impatience  burning — 

I  called  thee  through  the  silent  house  , 

But  here,  at  last,  I  found  thee. 
Where,  deathly  still  and  ghostly  white, 

The  curtains  fell  around  thee. 
Dead — dead  thou  wert ! — cold  lay  that  form. 

In  rarest  beauty  moulded 


SARA   J.  LIPPINCOTT. 


397 


And  meekly  o'er  thy  still,  white  breast 

The  snowy  hands  were  folded. 
Methought  thy  couch  was  fitly  strewn 

With  many  a  fragrant  blossom  ; 
Fresh  violets  thy  fingers  clasped, 

And  rosebuds  decked  thy  bosom  : 
But  thine  eyes,  so  like  young  violets, 
•  Might  smile  upon  me  never, 
And  the  rose.-bloom  from  thy  cheek  and  lip 

Had  fled  away  for  ever ! 
I  raised  thee  lovingly — thy  head 

Against  my  bosom  leaning, 
And  called  thv  name,  and  spoke  to  thee 

In  words  of  tenderest  meaning. 
I  sought  to  warm  thee  at  my  breast — 

My  arms  close  round  thee  flinging ; 
To  breathe  my  life  into  thy  lips, 

With  kisses  fond  and  clinging. 
Oh,  hour  of  fearful  agony  ! 

In  vain  my  phrensied  pleading; 
Thy  dear  voice  hushed,  thy  kind  eye  closed, 

My  lonely  grief  unheeding! 
Pale  wert  thou  as  the  lily-buds 

Twined  mid  thv  raven  tresses, 
And  cold  thy  lip  and  still  thy  heart 

To  all  my  wild  caresses  ! 

I  woke,  amid  the  autumn  night, 

To  hear  the  rain  descending, 
And  roar  of  waves  and  howl  of  winds 

In  stormy  concert  blending. 
But,  oh  !  my  waking  joy  was  morn, 

From  heaven's  own  portals  flowing, 
And  the  summer  of  thy  living  love 

Was  round  about  me  glowing ! 
I  woke — ah,  blessedness  !  to  feel 

Thy  white  arms  round  thee  wreathing — 
To  hear,  amid  the  lonely  night, 

Thy  calm  and  gentle  breathing! 
I  bent  above  thy  rest  till  morn, 

With  many  a  whispered  blessing — 
Soft,  timid  kisses  on  thy  lips 

Arid  blue-veined  eyelids  pressing. 
While  thus  from  Slumber's  shadowy  realm 

Thy  truant  soul  recalling, 
Thou  couidst  not  know  whence  sprang  the  tears 

Upon  thy  forehead  falling. 
And  oh,  thine  eye's  sweet  wonderment, 

When  thou  didst  ope  them  slowly, 
To  mark  mine  own  bent  on  thy  face 

In  rapture  deep  and  holy  ! 
Thou  couidst  not  know,  till  I  had  told 

That  dream  of  fearful  warning, 
How  much  of  heaven  was  in  my  words  — 

"  God  bless  thee,  love — good-morning  !" 


DARKENED   HOURS. 

WITH  folded  arms  and  drooping  head, 
I  stand,  my  heart's  blest  goal  unwon; 

My  soul's  high  purpose  unattained — 
But  life — but  life  goes  hurrying  on! 

I  pause  and  linger  by  the  way, 

With  fainting  heart  and  slumbering  powers, 


And  still  the  grand,  immortal  height 

Which  I  would  climb,  before  me  towers. 
And  still  far  up  its  rugged  steep, 

The  poet-laurel  mocks  mine  eyes; 
While  sweetly  on  its  summit  wave 

The  fadeless  flowers  of  paradise. 
My  voice  is  silent,  though  I  mark 

The  toil  and  wo  of  human  lives, 
The  beauty  of  that  human  love 

That  meekly  suffers,  trusts,  and  strives. 
My  voice  is  silent,  though  I  see 

The  captive  pining  in  his  cell, 
And  hear  the  exiled  patriot  breathe 

O'er  the  wild  seas  his  sad  farewell 
No  song  of  joy  is  on  my  lip 

WThile  Freedom's  banners  are  unfurled, 
And  Freedom's  fearless  battle-shouts 

And  triumph-lays  ring  round  the  world  ! 

No  glow  of  rapturous  feeling  comes 

To  flush  my  cheek,  or  light  mine  eye, 
WThile  golden  splendors  of  the  morn 

Are  kindling  all  the  eastern  sky. 
Nor  when,  while  dews  weigh  down  the  rose, 

I  read  amid  the  shadowy  even 
That  bright  Evangel  of  our  God, 

Whose  words  are  worlds,  the  starry  heaven, 
Yet  was  my  nature  formed  to  feel 

The  gladness  and  the  grief  of  life — 
To  thrill  at  Freedom's  name,  and  joy 

In  all  her  brave  and  holy  strife ; 
To  tremble  with  the  perfect  sense 

Of  all  things  lovely  or  sublime, 
The  glory  of  the  midnight  heaven, 

The  beauty  of  the  morning  time. 
God-written  thoughts  are  in  my  heart, 

And  deep  within  my  being  lie 
Eternal  truths  and  glorious  hopes, 

Which  I  must  speak  before  I  die 
Who  shall  restore  the  early  faith, 

The  fresh,  strong  heart,  the  utterance  bold  1 
Ah  !  when  may  be  this  weary  weight 

From  off  my  groaning  spirit  rolled  ] 

To  Thee  I  turn,  before  whose  throne 

No  earnest  suppliant  bows  in  vain  : 
My  spirit's  faint  and  lonely  cry 

Thou  wilt  not  in  thy  might  disdain. 
Awake  in  me  a  truer  life ! 

A  soul  to  labor  and  aspire ; 
Touch  thou  my  mortal  lips,  0  God, 

With  thine  own  truth's  immortal  fire  ! 

Be  with  me  in  my  darkened  hours — 

Bind  up  rny  bruised  heart  once  more ; 
The  grandeur  of  a  lofty  hope 

About  my  lowly  being  pour ! 
Give  strength  unto  my  spirit's  wing, 

Give  light  unto  my  spirit's  eye, 
And  let  the  sunshine  of  thy  smile 

Upon  my  upward  pathway  lie ! 
Thus,  when  my  soul  in  thy  pure  faith 

Hath  grown  serene,  and  free,  and  strong 
Thy  greatness  may  exalt  my  thought, 

Thy  love  make  beautiful  my  song. 


398 


SARA   J.    LIPPIXCOTT. 


LOVE  AND  DARING. 

THOU  darcst  not  love  me  !  thou  canst  only  see 
The  great  gulf  set  between  us :  hadst  thou  love, 
'T  would  hear  thee  o'er  it  on  a  wing  of  fire ! 
Wilt  put  from  thy  faint  lip  the  mantling  cup, 
The  draught  thou  'st  prayed  for  with  divinest  thirst, 
For  fear  a  poison  in  the  chalice  lurks'? 
Wilt  thou  be  barred  from  thy  soul's  heritage, 
The  power,  the  rapture,  and  the  crown  of  life, 
By  the  poor  guard  of  danger  set  about  it? 
I  tell  thee  that  the  richest  flowers  of  heaven 
Bloom  on  the  brink  of  darkness.  Thou  hast  marked 
How  sweet  y  o'er  the  beetling  precipice 
Hangs  the  young  June-rose  with  its  crimson  heart : 
And  woiildst  not  sooner  peril  life  to  win 
That  royal  flower,  that  thou  mightst  proudly  wear 
The  trophy  on  thy  breast,  than  idly  pluck 
A  thousand  meek-fared  daisies  by  the  way? 
How  dost  thou  shudder  at  Love's  gentle  tones, 
As  though  a  serpent's  hiss  were  in  thine  ear  ! 
Albe  t  thy  heart  throbs  echo  to  each  word, 
Why  wilt  not  rest,  oh  weary  wanderer, 
Upon  the  couch  of  flowers  Love  spreads  for  thee, 
On  banks  of  sunshine  ? — voices  silver-toned 
Shall  lull  thy  soul  with  strange,  wild  harmonies, 
Rock  thee  to  sleep  upon  the  waves  of  song ; 
Hope  shall  watch  o'er  thee  with  her  breath  of  dreams, 
Joy  hover  near,  impatient  for  thy  waking — 
Her  quick  wing  glancing  through  the  fragrant  air. 

Why  dost  thou  pause  hard  by  the  rose-wreathed 
Why  turn  thee  from  the^paradise  of  youth,   [gate ! 
Where  Love's  immortal  summer  blooms  and  glows, 
And  wrap  thyself  in  coldness  as  a  shroud] 
Perchance  'tis  well  for  thee— yet  does  the  flame 
That  glows  with  heat  intense  and  mounts  toward 
As  fitly  emblem  holiest  purity  [heaven, 

As  the  still  snow-wreath  on  the  mountain's  brow. 

Thou  darest  not  say, "  I  love,"  and  yet  thou  lovest, 
And  think'st  to  crush  the  mighty  yearning  down, 
That  in  thy  spirit  shall  upspring  for  ever ! 
Twinned  with  thy  soul,  it  lived  in  thy  first  thoughts, 
It  haunted  with  strange  dreams  thy  boyish  years, 
And  colored  with  its  deep,  empurpled  hue, 
The  passionate  aspirations  of  thy  youth. 
Go,  take  from  June  her  roses ;  from  her  streams 
Tin-  bubbling  fountain-springs;  from  life  take  love, 
Thou  hast  its  all  of  sweetness,  bloom,  and  strength. 

T-iere  is  a  grandeur  in  the  soul  that  dares 
To  live  out  all  the  life  God  lit  within ; 
That  battles  with  the  passions  hand  to  hand, 
And  wears  no  mail,  and  hides  behind  no  shield; 
That  p'ucks  its  joy  in  the  shadow  of  Death's  wing, 
That  drains  with  one  deep  draught  the  wine  of  life, 
An, I  that  with  fearless  foot  and  heaven-turned  eye 
May  stand  upon  a  dizzy  precipice, 
High  o'er  the  abvss  of  ruin,  and  not  fall! 


A  MORNING  RIDE. 

WHKV  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of  life, 
When  I  faint  'neath  its  burdens,  and  shrink  from 

its  strife — 
When  its  fruits  turned  to  ashes  are  mocking  my 

taste, 

And  its  fairest  scene  seems  but  a  desolate  waste; 
Then  come  ye  not  near  me  my  sad  heart  to  cheer 
With  Friendship's  soft  accents  or  Sympathy's  tear; 
No  counsel  I  ask,  and  no  pity  I  need, 
But  bring  me,  oh,  bring  me  my  gallant  young  steed, 
With  his  high-arched  neck  and  his  nostril  spread 
His  eye  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  fu  1  of  pride  !  [wide, 
As  I  spring  to  his  back,  as  I  seize  the  strong  rein, 
The  strength  of  my  spirit  returneth  again  : 
The  bonds  are  all  broken  which  fettered  my  mind, 
And  my  cares  borne  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ; 
My  pride  lifts  its  head,  for  a  season  bowed  down, 
And  the  queen  in  my  nature  now  puts  on  her  crown. 
Now  we  're  off  like  the  winds  to  the  plains  whence. 

they  came, 

And  the  rapture  of  motion  is  thrilling  my  frame. 
On.  on  speeds  my  courser,  scarce  printing  the  sod, 
Scarce  crushing  a  daisy  to  mark  where  he  trod. 
On,  on,  like  a  deer,  when  the  hounds'  early  bay 
Awakes  the  wild  echoes,  away  and  away  ! 
Still  faster,  still  farther  he  leaps  at  my  cheer, 
Till  the  rush  of  the  startled  air  whirrs  in  my  ear; 
Now  'long  a  clear  rivulet  lieth  his  track — 
See  his  glancing  hoof  tossing  the  white  pebbles  back; 
Now  a  glen  dark  as  midnight — what  matter  ] — 

we'll  down, 
Though  shadows  are  round  us,  and  rocks  o'er  us 

frown  ; 

The  thick  branches  shake  as  we're  hurry  ins  through, 
And  deck  us  with  spangles  of  silvery  dew. 
Whata  wild  thought  of  triumph,  that  this  girlish  hand 
Such  a  steed  in  the  might  of  his  strength  may  com 
mand  ! 

What  a  glorious  creature  !  ah,  g!ance  at  him  now, 
As  I  check  him  a  while  on  this  green  hillock's  brow ; 
How  he  tosses  his  mane  with  a  shrill,  joyous  neigh, 
And  paws  the  firm  earth  in  his  proud,  stately  play  ! 
Hurrah,  off  acrain — dashing  on.  as  in  ire, 
Till  the  long  flinty  pathway  is  flashing  with  fire  ! 
Ho,  a  ditch  ! — shall  we  pause  1  No,  the  bold  leap 

we  dare — 

Like  a  swift-winged  arrow  we  rush  through  the  air. 
Oh  !  not  all  the  pleasure  that  poets  may  praise— 
Not  the  'wildering  waltz  in  the  ballroom's  blaze, 
Nor  the  chivalrous  joust,  nor  the  daring  race, 
Nor  the  swift  regatta,  nor  merry  chase, 
Nor  the  sail  high  heaving  waters  o'er, 
Nor  the  rural  dance  on  the  moonlight  shore — 
Can  the  wild  and  thrilling  joy  exceed 
Of  a  fearless  leap  on  a  f.ery  steed. 


ANNA    H.    PHILLIPS. 


"  HELEN  IRVING"  is  the  graceful  nom  de 
plume  of  Miss  ANNA  H.  PHILLIPS,  of  Lynn, 
Massachusetts  —  probably  the  youngest  of 
our  young  American  poetesses.  She  is  not 
a  professional  authoress,  having  written  but 
little,  and  published  less ;  but,  judging  by  the 
quality  rather  than  the  quantity  of  her  pro 
ductions,  she  can  not  be  denied  the  posses 
sion  of  a  fine  poetical  genius.  Her  first  poem, 
Love  and  Fame,  which  appeared  in  the  Home 
Journal,  in  the  spring  of  1847,  Mr.  Willis 


thus  introduced  to  the  public  ;  "  We  might 
,  have  called  attention,  very  reasonably  and 
justly,  to  the  beautiful  versification  of  this 
production  —  to  the  melody,  and  the  varied 
succession  of  melody,  in  the  flow  of  the  slan- 
zas.  They  prove  the  nicest  possi  ble  ear,  with 
the  happiest  subjection  to  critical  judgment, 
True  genius  is  in  the  conception,  we  think, 
and  an  assurance  of  successful  genius  lies  in 
the  twin  excellence  of  giving  so  beautiful  a 
thought  its  fit  embodiment." 


LOVE  AND  FAME. 

IT  had  passed  in  all  its  grandeur,  that  sounding 

summer  shower 
Had  paid  its  pearly  tribute  to  each  fair  expectant 

flower, 
And  while  a  thousand  sparklers  danced  lightly  on 

the  spray, 
Close  folded  to  a  rosebud's  heart  one  tiny  rain-drop 

lay- 
Throughout  each  fevered  petal  had  the  heaven- 
brought  freshness  gone, 
They  had  mingled  dew  and  fragrance  till  their  very 

souls  were  one ; 
The  bud  its  love  in  perfume  breathed,  till  its  pure 

and  starry  guest 
Grew  glowing  as  the  life-hue  of  the  lips  it  fondly 

pressed. 

He  dreamed  away  the  hours  with  her,  his  gentle 

bride  and  fair, 
No  thought  filled  his  young  spirit,  but  to  dwell  for 

ever  there, 
While  ever  bending  wakefully,  the  bud  a  fond 

watch  kept, 
For  fear  the  envious  zephyrs  might  steal  him  as 

he  slept. 

But  forth  from  out  his  tent  of  clouds  in  burnished 

armor  bright, 
The  conquering  sun  came  proudly  in  the  glory  of 

his  might, 
And,  like  some  grand  enchanter,  resumed  his  wand 

of  power, 
And  shed  the  splendor  of  his  smile  on  lake,  and 

tree,  and  flower. 

Then,  peering  through  the  shadowy  leaves,  the  rain 
drop  marked  on  high, 

A  many-bued  triumphal  arch  span  all  the  eastern 
sky— 

He  saw  his  glittering  comrades  all  wing  their  joyous 
flight, 


And  stand — a  glorious  brotherhood — to  form  that 
bow  of  light ! 

Aspiring  thoughts  his  spirit  thrilled — "  Oh,  let  me 
join  them,  love  ! 

I'll  set  thy  beauty's  impress  on  yon  bright  arch 
above, 

And,  as  a  world's  admiring  gaze  is  raised  to  iris 
fair, 

'T  will  deem  my  own  dear  rosebud's  tint  the  love 
liest  color  there  !" 

The  gentle  bud  released  her  clasp — swift  as  a 
thought  he  flew, 

And  brightly  mid  that  glorious  band  he  soon  was 
glowing  too — 

All  quivering  with  delight  to  feel  that  she,  his  rose 
bud  bride, 

Was  gazing,  with  a  swelling  heart,  on  this,  his  hour 
of  pride  ! 

But  the  shadowy  night  came  down  at  last — the 

glittering  bow  was  gone, 
One  little  hour  of  triumph  was  all  the  drop  had 

won  : 
He  had  lost  the  warm  and  tender  glow,  his  distant 

bud-love's  hue, 
And  he  sought  her  sadly  sorrowing — a  tear-dimmed 

star  of  dew. 

NINA  TO   RIENZL* 

LEAVE  thee,  Rienzi  !     Speak  not  thus, 

Why  should  I  quit  thy  side  1 
Say,  shall  I  shrink  with  craven  fear, 

Thine  own,  and  freedom's  bride  1 
Whence  comes  the  sternness  on  thy  lip — 

Needs  Nina  to  be  tried  ? 


*  It  is  recorded,  that  when  the  "last  of  the  tribunes" 
saw.  in  the  discontent  of  the  people  and  the  withdrawal 
of  the  tavorof  the  church,  approaching  peril,  he  bade  his 
young  wife  seek  shelter  with  tho~e  who  would  cherish 
and  shield  her,  and  leave  him  to  meet  danger  alone.  But 
she  nobly  preferred  suffering  and  death  with  him  sho 
loved,  to  life  with  separation  from  him. 
39J 


100 


ANNA    H.   PHILLIPS. 


I  leave  thee  !  didst  thou  win  and  wed 

A  fond,  weak  girl — to  twine 
Her  arms  around  thee  in  thy  joy — 

To  press  her  lips  to  thine, 
And  breathe  a  love  born  of  the  heart, 

But  not  the  soul  divine  ! 

To  thrill  with  childish  awe,  whene'er 
Thv  brow  grew  dark  with  thought, 

And  when  the  threatening  lightnings  gleamed 
Thv  dark'ning  sky  athwart, 

Shrink  from  the  crash,  and  leave  thee  lone, 
Amid  the  wrecks  it  wrought ! 

Am  I  not  thine — wedded  to  thee 
In  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind — • 

Thou,  and  free  Rome,  within  my  breast 
As  on  one  altar  shrined — 

My  destiny,  my  very  life, 

Closely  with  thine  entwined  ! 

Thou  calledst  me  thine,  when  freemen  flung 

Fame's  laurel  on  thy  brow; 
And  am  I  less  thine  own — my  love 


Less  fondly  cherished  now, 
When  Rome  dishonoring  miscreants  dare 
That  fame  to  disavow  ! 

Look  in  mine  eyes  !  thou  know'st  thy  love 

Has  been  to  me  a  heaven, 
In  which  my  soul  has  floated,  like 

The  one  pure  star  of  even — 
Proud  in  the  lofty  consciousness 

Of  glory  gained  and  given. 

Nay,  strive  not  to  look  coldly,  love, 
Thou  reckst  not  of  the  power 

With  which  my  heart  will  cling  to  thine 
In  mad  misfortune's  hour — 

Glowing  more  bright  its  changeless  truth, 
As  darker  storms  shall  lower. 

And  oh,  Rienzi !  should  Heaven  deem 

Thy  sacred  mission  done, 
How  glorious  'twere  to  die  with  thee, 

My  own,  my  worshipped  one — 
As,  bathed  in  living  light,  the  day 

Dies  with  the  setting  sun  ! 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    AKEES    ALLEX. 


BABYHOOD. 

0,  BABY,  witli  your  marvellous  eyes, 

Clear  as  the  yet  un  fallen  dew, 
Methinks  you  are  the  only  wise, — 
No  change  can  touch  you  with  surprise, — 
Nothing  is  strange  or  new  to  you. 

You  did  not  weep,  when  faint  and  weak 

Grew  Love's  dear  hand  within  your  hold, 
And,  when  I  pressed  your  living  cheek 
Close  down  to  lips  which  could  not  speak, 
You  did  not  start  to  find  them  cold. 

You  think  it  morning  when  you  wake, 

That  night  comes  when  your  eyelids  fall, 
That  the  winds  blow,  and  blossoms  shake, 
And  the  sun  shines  for  your  small  sake ; 
And,  queen-like,  you  accept  it  all. 

0  you  are  wise  !  you  comprehend 

What  my  slow  sense  may  not  divine, — 
The  sparrow  is  your  fearless  friend, 
And  even  these  pine-tassels  bend 

More  fondly  to  your  cheek  than  mine. 

When  in  the  summer  woods  we  walk, 

All  ,-hy,  sweet  things  commune  with  you  : 

You  understand  the  robin's  talk  ; 

And  w,,»-ii  a  flower  bends  its  stalk, 
i'ou  answer  it  with  nod  and  coo. 

Sometimes,  with  playful  prank  and  wile, 

4  As  seeing  what  I  cannot  see, 
You  look  into  the  air,  and  smile, 
And  murmur  softly  all  the  while 

To  one  who  speaks  no  word  to  me. 

Is  it  because  your  sacred  youth 

Is  free  from  touch  of  time  or  toil  ? 

1  cannot  tell  ; — perhaps,  in  sooth, 

Clean  hands  may  grasp  the  fair  white  truth 
Withheld  from  mine  through  fear  of  soil. 

I  guard  you  with  a  needless  care, 

O  child,  so  sinlessly  secure  ! 
I  see  that  even  now  you  wear 
A  dawning  glory  in  your  hair,— 

And  fittingly,  for  you  are  pure: 

Purs  to  the  heart's  unsullied  core, 

As,  conscious  of  its  spotless  trust, 
The  lily's  temple  is,  before 
The  bee  profanes  its  marble  floor, 
L •.•living  a  track  of  golden  dust. 

0,  shield  me  with  your  light  caress, 

Dear  heart,  so  stainless  and  so  new! 
Unconscious  of  your  loveliness, 
Your  beauty,  fresh  and  shadowless, 
As  is  a'violet  of  its  blue. 


Perhaps  through  death  our  souls  may  gain 
Your  perfect  peace,  your  holy  rest. 

Life  has  not  vexed  us  all  in  vain, 

If,  after  all  this  woe  and  pain, 

We  may  be  blessed  babes  again, 

Cradled  on  Love's  immortal  breast  ! 


GOING  TO  SLEEP. 


THE  light  is  fading  down  the  sky, 
The  shadows  grow  and  multiply  ; 
I  hear  the  thrushes'  evening  song  : 
But  I  have  borne  with  toil  and  wrong 

So  long,  so  long  ! 

Dim  dreams  my  drowsy  senses  drown, — 
So,  darling,  kiss  my  eyelids  down  ! 

My  life's  brief  spring  went  wasted  by, 
My  summer  ended  fruitlessly  ; 

I  learned  to  hunger,  strive,  and  wait: 
I  found  you,  love, — O  happy  fate! — 

So  late,   so  late  ! 

Now  all  my  fields  are  turning  brown, — 
So,  darling,  kiss  my  eyelids  down  ! 

O  blessed  sleep  !  O  perfect  rest ! 

Thus  pillowed  on  your  faithful  breast, 
Nor  life  nor  death  is  wholly  drear, 
O  tender  heart,  since  you  are  here, — 
So  dear,  so  dear  ! 

Sweet  love  !  my  soul's  sufficient  crown  ! 

Now,  darling,  kiss  my  eyelids  down  1 


LEFT    BEHIND. 


IT  was  the  autumn  of  the  year — 
The  strawberry-leaves  were  red  and  sere, 
October's  airs  were  fresh  and  chill, 
When,  pausing  on  the  windy  hill, 
The  hill  that  overlooks  the  sea, 
You  talked  confidingly  to  me, — 
Me,  whom  your  keen  artistic  sight 
lias  not  yet  learned  to  read  aright,   * 
Since  I  have  veiled  my  heart  from  you, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  told  me  of  your  toilsome  past, 
The  tardy  honors  won  at  last, 
The  trials  borne,  the  conquests  gained, 
The  longed-for  boon  of  Fame  attained: 
I  knew  that  every  victory 
But  lifted  you  away  from  me, — 
That  every  step  of  high  emprise 
But  left  me  lowlier  in  your  eyes: 
I  watched  the  distance  as  it  grew, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  kiiew. 


402 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN. 


You  did  not  see  the  bitter  trace 
Of  angui.-h  sweep  across  my  face; 
You  did  not  hear  my  proud  heart  beat 
Heavy  and  slow  beneath  your  feet: 
You  thought  of  triumphs  .still  unwon, 
Of  glorious  deeds  as  yet  undone  ; 
And  1,  the  while  you  talked  to  me, 
I  watched  the  gulls  float  lonesomely 
Till  lost  amid  the  hungry  blue, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  walked  the  sunny  side  of  fate  ; 
The  wise  world  smiles,  and  calls  you  great ; 
The  golden  fruitage  of  success 
Drops  at  your  feet  in  plenteousness  ; 
And  you  have  blessings  manifold, — 
Renown  and  power,  and  friends  and  gold. 
They  build  a  wall  between  us  twain 
Which  may  not  be  thrown  down  again. 
Alas!  for  I,  the  long  years  through, 
Have  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

Your  life's  proud  aim,  your  art's  high  truth, 

Have  kept  the  promise  of  your  youth  ; 

And  while  you  won  the  crown  which  now 

Breaks  into  bloom  upon  your  brow, 

]\Iy  soul  cried  strongly  out  to  you 

Across  the  ocean's  yearning  blue, 

While,  unremembered  and  afar, 

I  watched  you,  as  I  watch  a  star 

Tin  (High  darkness  struggling  into  view, 

Ai.d  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

I  used  to  dream,  in  all  these  years 

Of  patient  faith  and  silent  tears, 

Th.it  Love's  strong  hand  would  put  aside 

The  barriers  of  place  and  pride, — 

Would  reach  the  pathless  darkness  through 

And.  draw  me  softly  up  to  you. 

Perchance  the  violets  o'er  my  dust 

Will  half  betray  their  buried  trust, 

And  say,  their  blue  eyes  full  of  dew, 

"  yiie  loved  you  better  than  you  knew." 


ENDURANCE. 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not 

break  ! 

How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer  and  not  die! 
I  question  much  it"  any  pain  or  ache 

Of  soul  or  body  brings  our  end  more  nigh  : 
Death  chooses  his  own  time  ;  till  that  is  sworn, 
All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We    shrink    and  shudder  at    the  surgeon's 

knife, 

Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel  st.pcl 
\\  hose  edge  seems  searchiiiff  ior  the  quiver 
ing  life, 

Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs  reveal, 
That  still,  although  the  trembling  flesh  be 
torn, 

This  also  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a  sorrow  rising  in  our  way, 

And  try  to  flee  from  the  approaching  ill ; 
We  seek  some  small  escape ;  we  weep  and 
pray ; 


But  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our  hearts 

are  still  ; 

Not  that  the  pain  is  of  its  sharpness  shorn, 
But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life  ; 

We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our  own  : 
Anon  it  faints  and  fails  in  deathly  strife, 
Leaving    us    stunned,    and    stricken,   and 

alone ; 

But  ah!  we  do  not  die  with  those  we  mourn, — 
This  also  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things, — fam 
ine,  thirst, 

Bereavement,  pain  ;  all  grief  and  misery, 
All  woe  and  sorrow  ;  life  inflicts  its  worst 
On  soul  and  body, — but  \ve  cannot  die. 
Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and  faint,  and 
worn, — 

Lo,  all  things  can  be  borne! 


SINGING  IN  THE  BAIN. 

WHERE,  the  elm-tree  branches  by  the  rain 

are  stirred, 

Careless  of  the  shower,  swings  a  little  bird  : 
Clouds  may  frown  and  darken,  drops  may 

fall  in  vain  ; — 
Little  heeds  the  warbler  singing  in  the  rain! 

Silence     soft,     unbroken,     reigneth     every 
where, — 
Save  the  rain's  low  heart-throbs  pulsing  on 

the  air, — 
Save  the  song,    which,  pausing,  wins  no 

answering  strain  ; — 
Little  cares  the  robin  singing  in  the  rain! 

Not  yet  are  the  orchards  rich  with  rosy  snow, 
Nor  with  dandelions  are  the  fields  aglow ; 
Yet  almost  my  fancy  in  his  gong's  sweet 

flow 

Hears  the    June  leaves  whisper,  and  the 
roses  blow ! 

Dimmer  fall  the  shadows,  mistier  grows  the 

air, — 
Still  the  thick  clouds  gather,  darkening  here 

and  there. 
From  their  heavy  fringes  pour  the  drops 

amain  ; 

Still  the  bird  is  swinging,  singing  in  the 
rain. 

0  thou  hopeful  singer,  whom  my  faith  per 
ceives 

To    a    dove     transfigured  "  bringing    olive- 
leaves, — 
Olive-leaves  of   promise,  types  of  joy  to 

be;— 

How,  in  doubt  and  trial,  learns  my  heart 
of  thee  ! 

Cheerful  summer  prophet  !  listening  to  thy 

song, 
How  my  fainting  spirit   groweth   glad  and 

strong. 

Let  the  black  clouds  gather,  let  the  sun 
shine  wane, 
If  I  may  but  join  thee  singing  in  the  rain  ! 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN. 


403 


A  SPRING  LOVE-SONG. 

THE  earth  is  waking  at  the  voice  of  May, 
The  new  grass  brightens  by  the  trodden  way, 
The  woods  wave  welcome  to  the  sweet  spring 
day, 

And  the  sea  is  growing  summer  bfue ; 
But  fairer,  sweeter  than  the  smiling  sky, 
Or  bashful  violet  with  tender  eye, 
Is  she  whose  love  for  me  will  never  die, — 

I  love  you,  darling,  only  you  ! 

0,  friendships  falter  when  misfortunes  frown, 

The  blossoms  vanish  when  the  leaves  turn 
brown, 

The  shells  lie  stranded  when  the  tide  goes 

down, 
But  you,  dear  heart,  are  ever  true. 

The  grass  grows  greenest  when   the    rain 
drops  fall, 

The  vine    clasps  closest   to    the  crumbling 
wall,— 

So   love   blooms    sweetest    under    sorrow's 

thrall,— 
I  love  you,  darling,  only  you  ! 

The  early  robin  may  forget  to  sing, 

The  loving  mosses  may  refuse  to  cling, 

Or  the  brook  to  tinkle  at  the  call  of  spring, 

But  you,  dear  heart,  are  ever  true. 
Let  the  silver  mingle  with  your  curls  of  gold. 
Let  the  years  grow  dreary   and   the  world 

wax  old, 

But  the  love  I  bear  for  you  will  ne'er  grow 
cold, — 

I  love  you,  darling,  only  you  ! 


THE  AMBER  ROSARY. 

MY  birthday  !     I  must  keep  it,  as  of  old, 
And  wear  some  token  of  a  holiday  ; 

For  see  the  woods  are  gay  with  red  and  gold, 
And  autumn  sings  her  merriest  roundelay. 

I  have  no  heart  for  dainty  robes  to-day, 
And  flowers  do  not  suit  me  any  more ; 

So,  from  the  darkness  where  it  "hides  away, 
I  take  this  relic  of  the  days  of  yore, — 

Only  an  antique  amber  rosary, 

Whose  beads  still  hold  the  mellow  light 

of  Rome, 
Clasped  by  a  cross  of  blackest  ebony, 

Fashioned  by  loving  fingers  here  at  home. 

And  as  I  lift  again  the  chain  and  cross, 
The  bright  beads  seem  a  wreath  of  golden 

days, 

Ended  too  soon  by  black  and  bitter  loss, 
Made,  gloomier  still  by   their  contrasting 
rays. 

0,  liquidly  the  sunlight,  niters  through 
These  shining  spheres  of  warm  translucent 
gold, 

Changing  to  drops  of  rich  and  wondrous  hue, 
Like  precious  wine  of  vintage  rare  and  old. 

Ah  me  !  this  rosary,  in  other  lands, 

Has  learned  more  prayers  than  I  shall  ever 
know, — 


Its  slow  beads  slipped  and  smoothed  by  pious 

hands, 
Whose  pulses  stopped  a  hundred  years  ago 

It  keeps  an  odor  mystical  and  dim, 

As    of    old   churches,    where    the   censer 

swings, — 

Where,  listening  to  the  echo-chanted  hymn, 
The  sculptured  angels  fold  their  marble 
wings. 

Where  through  the  windows  melts  the  un 
willing  light, 
And  in  its  passage  learns  their  gorgeous 

stain, 
Then  bars  the  gloom  with  rays  all   rainbow 

bright, 

As  human  souls  grow  beautiful  through 
pain. 

One  birthday, — it  might  be  a  year  ago, 
Or  fifty,  or  a  thousand, — one  who  smiled 

Counted  these  beads,  and  praised  their  mar 
vellous  glow, 
Saying,  "  I  bring  a  gift  to  you,  dear  child, — 

"  An  amulet,  not  made  of  gems  or  gold, 
But  drops  of  light,  imprisoned  from  above. 

Gold  were   too  heavy ;  gems,  too  hard  and 

cold  ; 
And  only  amber  suits  the  soul  of  love. 

"What  fitter  birthday  token  could  I  give? 

See  how  the  clear  orbs  answer  to  the  sun  ? 
I  clasp  them  at  your  throat,  and  you  shall  live 

A  perfect  golden  year  for  every  one  !  " 

"  Then  why  the  cross?  "  I  asked.  He  sighed 

and  said, 
"For  possible  sorrows."  Ah,  these  useless 

tears  ! 
The  hand  which  placed  it  here,  now  cold  and 

dead, 
Forgets  to  twine  for  me  the  golden  years. 

Forgets  to  bless  her  waiting  head,  who  wears 
For    his    dear    sake    these    amber    beads 
to-day, — 

Forgets  to  make  the  cruel  cross  she  bears 
Grow  lighter  as  the   birthdays  wear  away. 

Yet  still  the  amber  gleams,  and  unawares 

Turns  all  to  gold  beneath  its  mellow  ray  ; 
0  pure    hearts,    glowing    with  remembered 

prayers, 

Plead  for   her  peace  who   has  no  heart  to 
pray! 


OCTOBER. 


THE  door-yard  trees  put   on  their  autumn 

bloom, 
Purple,  and   gold,  and   crimson   rich   and 

strong, 
That  stain  the  light,  and  give  my  lonesome 

room 
An  atmosphere  of  sunset  all  day  long. 

In  giddy  whirls  the  yellow  elm-leaves  fall, 
The   rifled   cherry-boughs  grow  sere  and 
thinned, 


404 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN. 


Yet  still  the  morning-glories  on  the  wall 
Fling  out   their  purple  trumpets  to  the 
wind, — 

So  full  but  now  of  summer's  triumph-notes, 
The  moth's  soft  wing  their  powdery  sta 
mens  stirred, 
The  bee's  rich  murmur  filled  their  honeyed 

throats, 

And  the  quick  thrilling  of  the  humming 
bird. 

In  the  long  dreary  nights  of  storm  I  hear 
The  windy  woodbine  beat  against  the  pane, 

Tivmbling  and  shuddering  with   cold    and 

fear, 
Like   one  who  seeks  a  shelter  all  in  vain. 

The  sobbing  rain  deplores  the  sad  decline 
Of  all  which  erst  was  fair,  and  sweet,  and 

young, 

The  tender  fingers  of  the  clambering  vine 
Are  bruised  against  the  trellis  where  they 
clung. 

Thus  is  my  world  dismantled,  cold  and  bare  ; 
The     winter     threatens,     lowering     and 

drear  ; — 
Where  are  the  pattering  feet,   the  shining 

hair, 

The   eyes  which  made  it  always  summer 
here? 


AT  LAST. 

AT  last,  when  all  the  summer  shine 

That  warmed  life's  early  hours  is  past, 
Your  loving  fingers  seek  for  mine 

And  hold  them  close — at  last — at  last  ! 
Not  oft  the  robin  comes  to  build 

Its  nest  upon  the  leafless  bough 
By  autumn  robbed,  by  winter  chilled, — 

But  you,  dear  heart,  you  love  me  now. 

Though  there  are  shadows  on  my  brow 

And  furrows  on  my  cheek,  in  truth, — 
The  marks  where  Time's  remorseless  plough 

Broke  up  the  blooming  sward  of  Youth, — 
Though  fled  is  every  girlish  grace 

Might  win  or  hold  a  lover's  vow, 
Despite  my  sad  and  faded  face, 

And  darkened  heart,  you  love  me  now! 

I  count  no  more  my  wasted  tears  ; 

They  left  no  echo  of  their  fall  ; 
I  mourn  no  more  my  lonesome  years  ; 

This  blessed  hour  atones  for  all. 
1  tVar  not  all  that  Time  or  Fate 

-May  bring  to  burden  heart  or  brow, — 
Strong-  in  the  love  that  came  so  late, 

Our  souls  shall  keep  it  always  now  f 


LAST. 


FRIEND,  whose  smile  has  come  to  be 

Vrery  precious  unto  me, 

'Though  I  know  I  drank  not  first 
Of  your  love's  bright  fountain-burst, 

Yet  I  grieve  not  for  the  past, 

Bo  you  only  love  me  last ! 


Other  souls  may  find  their  joy 
In  the  blind  love  of  a  boy  : 

Give  me  tbat  which  years  have  tried, 

Disciplined  and  purified, — 
Such  as,  braving  sun  and  blast, 
You  will  bring  to  me  at  last  ! 

There  are  brows  more  fair  than  mine, 

Eyes  of  more  bewitching  shine, 
Other  hearts  more  fit,  in  truth, 
For  the  passion  of  your  youth  ; 

But,  their  transient  empire  past, 

You  will  surely  love  me  last  ! 

Wing  away  your  summer-time, 

Find  a  love  in  every  clime, 

Roam  in  liberty  and  light, — 
I  shall  never  stay  your  flight ; 

For  I  know,  when  all  is  past, 

You  will  come  to  me  at  last  ! 

Change  and  flutter  as  you  will, 

I  shall  smile  securely  still ; 

Patiently  I  trust,  and  wait, 
Though  you  tarry  long  and  late  ; 

Prize  your  spring  till  it  be  past, 

Only,  only  love  me  last  ! 


FORGOTTEN. 

Ix  this  dim  shadow,  where 
She  found  the  quiet  which  all  tired  hearts 

crave, 

Now,  without  grief  or  care, 
The  wild  bees   murmur,  and  the    blossoms 

wave, 

And  the  forgetful  air 
Blows  heedlessly  across  her  grassy  grave. 

Yet  when  she  lived  on  earth, 
She  loved  this  leafy  dell,  and  knew  by  name 

All  things  of  sylvan  birth  ; 
Squirrel  and  bird  chirped  welcome,  when  she 

came  ; 

But  now,  in  careless  mirth, 
They   frisk,  and  build,  and    warble  all  the 
same. 

From  the  great  city  near, 
Wherein  she  toiled  through  life's  incessant 
quest 

For  weary  year  on  year, 
Come  the  far  voices  of  its  deep  unrest 

To  touch  her  dead,  deaf  ear, 
And  surge  unechoedo'er  her  pulseless  breast. 

The  hearts  which  clung  to  her 
Have  sought  out  other  shiines,  as  all  hearts 

must, 

When  Time,  the  comforter, 
Has  worn  their  grief  out,  and  replaced  their 

trust ; 

Not  even  neglect  can  stir 
This  little  handful  of  forgotten  dust. 

Grass  waves,  and  insects  hum, 
And  then  the  snow  blows  bitterly  across ; 

Strange  footsteps  go  and  come, 
Breaking  the  oew-drops  on  the  starry  moss 

She  lieth  still  and  dumb, 
Counting  no  longer  either  gain  or  loss. 


MRS.    ELIZABETH   AKERS  ALLEN. 


405 


Ah,  well, — 'tis  better  so  ; 
Let  the  dust  deepen  as  the  years  increase  ; 

Of  her  who  sleeps  below 
Let  the  name  perish,  and  the  memory  cease, 

Since  she  has  come  to  know 
That  which  through  life  she  vainly  prayed 
for, — Peace  ! 


IN  AN  ATTIC. 

TflTS  is  my  attic  room.    Sit  down,  my  friend. 

My  swallow's  nest  is  high  and  hard  to  gain  ; 

The  stairs  are  long  and  steep  ;  but  at  the  end 

The  rest  repays  the  pain. 
For  here  are  peace  and  freedom  ;  room  for 

speech 

Or  silence,  as  may  suit  a  changeful  mood : 
Society's  hard  by-laws  do  not  reach 

This  lofty  altitude. 

You  hapless  dwellers  in  the  lower  rooms 
See  only  bricks  and  sand  and  windowed 

walls  ; 
But  here,  above  the  dust  and  smoky  glooms, 

Heaven's  light  unhindered  falls. 
So  early  in  the  street  the  shadows  creep, 
Your  night  begins  while  yet  my  eyes  be 
hold 
The  purpling  hills,  the  wride  horizon's  sweep, 

Flooded  with  sunset  gold. 
The  day  comes  earlier  here.      At  morn  I  see 
Along  the  roofs  the  eldest  sunbeam  peep  ; 
I  live  in  daylight,  limitless  and  free, 
While  you  are  lost  in  sleep. 

I  catch  the  rustle  of  the  maple-leaves, 

I  see  the  breathing  branches  rise  and  fall, 
And  hear,  from  their  high  perch  along  the 
eaves. 

The  bright-necked  pigeons  call. 

Far  from  the  parlors  with  their   garrulous 

crowds 

I  dwell  alone,  with  little  need  of  words  ; 
I  have  mute  friendships  with  the  stars  and 
clouds, 

And  love-trysts  with  the  birds. 
So  all  who  walk  steep   ways,  in   grief  and 

night, 

Where  every  step  is  full   of  toil  and  pain, 
May  see,  when  they  have  gained  the  sharpest 
height, 

It  has  not  been  in  vain, 

Since  they  have  left  behind  the   noise  and 

heat ; 
And,  though  their  eyes   drop  tears,  their 

sight  is  clear  : 

The  air  is  purer,  aiv.l  the  br  >eze  is  sweet, 
And  the  blue  heaven  more  near. 


OCTOBER  TO  MAY. 

TIIE  day  that  brightens  half  the  earth 

Is  night  to  half.     Ah,  sweet, 
One's  m  mrning  is  another's  mirth, — 
You  wear  your  bright  years  like  a  crown, 
While  mine,  dead  garlands,  tangle  down 
In  chains  about  my  feet. 


The  breeze  which  wakes  the  folded  flower 

Sweeps  dead  leaves  from  the  tree  ; 
So  partial  Time,  as  hour  by  hour 
He  tells  the  rapid  years, — eheu  ! — 
Brings  bloom  and  beauty  still  to  you, 
But  leaves  his  blight  with  me. 

The  sun  which  calls  the  violet  up 
Out  of  the  moistened  mould 

Withers  the  wind-flower's  fragile  cup, — 

For  even  Nature  has  her  pets, 

And,  favoring  the  new,  forgets 
To  love  and  spare  the  old. 

The  shower  that  makes  the  bud  a  rose 

Beats  off  the  lilac  bloom  ; 
I  am  a  lilac  ;  so  life  goes  ; 
A  lilac  that  has  outlived  May  ; 
You  are  a  blush-rose  :  well-a-day  ! 

I  pass,  and  give  you  room  ! 


EVENING. 


II AUK  !  hear  the  sleet  against  the  pane, 
And  hear  the  wild  winds  blow  ! 

It  chills  me  with  a  shuddering  dread, 
This  heavy,  heaping  snow, — 

I  cannot  bear  that  all  night  long 
The  drifts  should  deepen  so. 

0  darling,  that  this  storm  should  beat 
Upon  thy  lonesome  bed  ! 

0  darling-,  that  this  drifting  snow 
Should  heap  above  thy  head, 

And  I  not  there  to  shelter  tliee, 
And  bear  the  storm  instead  ! 

I  I  trim  anew  the  glowing  fire, — 
The  flames  leap  merrily  ; 

1  make  the  lamplight  bright  and  clear,— 

Thou  art  not  here  to  see. 

Ah,  since  I  sit  here  all  alone 

What  are  they  all  to  me  ? 

0  dreary  hearth  !  0  lonesome  life  ! 
O  empty  heart  and  home  ! 

It  is  not  home  to  me,  wherein 

Thy  dear  feet  never  come,: — 
There  is  no  meaning'  in  the  word 

Since  tjiy  loved  lips  are  dumb  ! 

So,  all  in  vain  the  bright  flames  dance, 
The  ruddy  embers  glow  : 

1  shiver  in  the  mellow  light, 
Because,  alas,  I  know 

The  snow-drifts  heap  above  thy  sleep,— 
This  heavy,  heaping  snow  ! 


PROPHECY. 


THERE  's  a  clasp  upon  my  fingers, 
There's  a  kiss  upon  my  blow, 

In  my  ear  Love's  breathing  lingers, 
But,  alas,  it  is  not  thou  ! 

Since  I  walk  no  more  with  thee, 

0,  the  days  have  come  to  be 

Dreary,  dreary  unto  me  ; — 

Best  beloved,  where  art  thou  ? 


406 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN. 


In  these  sweet,  prophetic  mornings, 

\Vlien  the   brown  buds  load  the  bough, 

And  the  air  brings  summer  warnings, 

All  my  heart  cries,    "  Wlfereart  tliou  ?  " 

Still  my  heart,  for  evermore 

Yearning  toward  ilie  misty  shore, 

Kee]>s  repeating  o'er  and  o'er, 

"  Best  beloved,  where  art  tliou  ?  " 

When  my  soul  grows  faint  with  pining, 

And  at  death's  behest  I  bow, 
On  some  kindly  breast  reclining 

1  shall  sigh,  "  Would  it  were  tliou  ! 
Vn  forgot  ten,  dearest,  best, 
Would  that  thy  most  faithful  breast 
Could  have  pillowed  my  last  rest, — 

O  beloved,  were  it  tliou  !  " 

Gentle  voices  breathe  around  me 

Words  with  fondest  meaning  blent  ; 

Love's  most  tender  care  has  crowned  me 
With  all  blessings  but  content ; 

0  the  blessed  days  of  old  ! 

0  the  love  too  long  untold  ! 

0  the  years  so  dark  and  cold, 

And  their  burden,   "  Were  it  tliou  ! " 


"MY  DEARLING." 

MY  Dearling !— thus,  in  days  long  fled, 
In  spite  of  creed  and  court  and  queen, 
King  Henry  wrote  to  Anne  Boleyn, — 

The  dearest  pet  name  ever  said, 

And  dearly  purchased,  too,  I  ween  ! 

Poor  child  !  she  played  a  losing  game : 
She  won  a  heart, — so  Henry  said, — 
But  ah  !  the  price  she  gave  instead  ! 

Men's  hearts,  at  best,  are  but  a  name  : 
She  paid  for  Henry's  with  her  head ! 

You  count  men's  hearts  as  something  worth? 
Not  I :  were  I  a  maid  unwed, 
I'd  rather  have  my  own  fair  head 

Than  all  the  lovers  on  the  earth, 

Than  all  the  hearts  that  ever  bled! 

"  My  Dearling  !  "  with  a  love  most  true, 
Having  no  fear  of  creed  or  queen, 
I  breathe  that  name  my  prayers  between  ; 

But  it  shall  never  bring  to  you 

The  hapless  fate  of  Anne  Bolevn  ! 


WHEN  THE  LEAVES  ARE  TURNING   BROWN. 

NEVKIJ  is  my  heart  so  gay 

In  the  budding  month  of  May, 
Never  does  it  beat  a  tune 
Halfsosweel  in  bloomy  June, 

Never  knows  such  happiness 

As  on  such  a  day  as  this, 

When  October  dons  her  crown, 
And  the  leaves  are  turning  brown. 

Breathe,  sweet  children,  soft  regrets 

For  the  vanished  violets  ; 

Sing,  young  lovers,  the  delights 
Of  the  golden  summer  nights  ; — 


Never  in  the  summer  hours 
On  my  way  such  radiance  showers 
As  from  heaven  falls  softly  down, 
When  the  leaves  are  turning  brown. 

Braid  your  girdles,  fresh  and  gay, 
Children,  in  the  bloom  of  May  ; " 
Twist  your  chaplets  in  young  June, 
Maidens, — they  will  fade  full  soon; 
Twine  ripe  roses,  July-red, 
Lovers,  for  the  dear  one's  head  ; — 
I  will  weave  my  richer  crown 
When  the  leaves  are  turning  brown  ! 


CONSOLATION. 

Now  leave,  O  leave  me  !  I  have  stayed  to 

hear 
All  the  vain  comfortings  your  lips  have 

said, — 

Wrell  meant,  but  yet  they  fall  upon  my  ear 
As  yellow  leaves   might  whirl  about  my 

head  ; — 
Now  leave  me  with  my  dead. 

I  would  not  be  ungrateful,  friends  ;  but  still 
Your  kind,  condoling  voices  trouble  me  : 

This  aching  need,  which  words  can  never  fill, 
Rejects  your  proffered  comfort  utterly, 
As  husks  and  vanity. 

They  are  unwise  physicians  who  would  bind 

A  bleeding  wound,  and  pour  in  wine  and  oil, 

While  yet  the  arrow-head  remains  behind  ; — 

This  stab,  whence  yet  the  ruddy  life-diops 

.  boil, 
Mocks  your  unskillful  toil. 

You  tell  me  that  to  him  I  mourn  is  given 
Such  bliss  as  makes  this  world  seem  poor 

and  dim  ; — 

Is  there  an  angel  in  the  whole  of  heaven, 
In  all  the  shining  ranks  of  seraphim, 
Can  take  my  place  to  him  ? 

Can  he  be  happy  while  I  grieve  and  pine  ? 

Can  he  rejoice,  and  I  in  misery  ? 
Then  he  is  changed,  and  is  no  longer  mine ; 

For  he  so  loved  me,  that  he  could  not  be 
Content  away  from  me. 

And  yet  you  say  he  dwells  in  joy  and  peace, 

Far  from  this  dim  and  sorrowful  estate, 
And,    when    my    earthly    wanderings    shall 

cease, 

Will  come  and  meet  me  at  life's  outer  gate  : 
''  Be  strong,"  you  say,"  and  wait." 

Would  that  I  were  like  Stephen,  and  could 

see, 
What  time  the  cruel  stones  bruise  out  my 

soul, 

The  opening  heavens,  and  angels  waiting  me! 
Alas  1  I  hear  no  homeward  chariot-roll, 
No  welcome  to  the  goal. 

Ah  me !  the  red  is  yet  upon  my  cheek, 

And  in  my  veins  life's  vigorous  currents 

play  ; 
Adown   my   hair  there   shines   no   warning 

streak, 


MRS.   ELIZABETH   AKERS  ALLEN. 


407 


And  the  sweet  meeting  which  you  paint 

to-day 
Seems  sadly  far  away. 

Another  tells  me  that  he  loves  me  still, — 
Sees,  hears,  and  guides  me  through  life's 

hurrying  throng, 

While  I,  despite  my  yearning  sense  and  will, 
Am  blind  and  deaf,  and  do  his  deep  love 

wrong, 
By  weeping  all  day  long. 

What  does  it  comfort  me,  if  still  he  walks 

Beside  me  all  the  while,  invisibly  ? 
What  does  it   help  me,  that  a  dear  ghost 

mocks 
Blind  eyes  with  unseen  smiles  ?  I  fail  to  see 

What  comfort  it  may  be. 
There  is  no  balm.    Though  he  may  dwell  in 

bliss, 

I  sit  in  grief.     It  is  the  loss,  the  lack, 
The  absence,  and  the  utter  emptiness 

Which  kill  me.  Comfort  ?— Find  the  grave- 
ward  track 
And  bring  my  darling  back  ! 


A  DREAM. 


BACK  again,  darling?  O  day  of  delight  ! 
How  I  have  longed  for  you,   morning    and 

night ! 
Watched  for  you,  pined  for  you,  all  the  days 

through, 

Craving  no  boon  and  no  blessing  but  you, — 
Prayed  for  you,  plead  for  you,  sought  you  in 

vain, 

Striving  forever  to  find  you  again, — 
Counting  all  anguish  as  naught,  if  I  might 
Clasp  you  again  as  I  clasp  you  to-night  ! 

0,  I  have  sorrowed  and  suffered  so  much 
Since    I    last    answered   your    lip's    loving 

touch, — 
Through   the   night-watches,   in    daylight's 

broad  beams, 
Anguished     by     visions     and     tortured    by 

dreams, — 

Dreams  so  replete  with  bewildering  pain, 
Still  it  is  throbbing  in  heart  and  in  brain  : 
0,  for   I  dreamed,  —keep  me  close  to    your 

side, 
Darling,  0  darling  ! — I  dreamed  you  had  died  ! 

Dreamed  that  I  stood  by  your  pillow,  and 

heard 
From  your  pale  lips  love's  last  half-uttered 

word ; 

And  by  the  light  of  the  May-morning  skies 
Watched  your  face  whiten,  and  saw    your 

dear  eyes 

Gazing  far  into  the  Wonderful  Land  ; 
Felt  your   fond  fingers    grow    cold    in    my 

hand  ; — 
"Darling,"  you  whispered,  "My  darling!" 

you  said 
Faintly,  so  faintly, — and  then  you  were  dead  ! 

0  the  dark  hours  when  I' knelt  by  your  grave, 
Calling  upon  you  to  love  and  to* save, — 


Pleading  in  vain  for  a  sign  or  a  word 
Only  to  tell  me  you  listened  and  heard, — 
Only  to  say  you  remembered  and  knew 
How  all  my  soul  was  in  anguish  for  you  ; 
Bitter,  despairing,  the  tears  that  I  shed, 
Darling,  O  darling,  because  you  were  dead  ! 

O  the  black  days  of  your  absence,  my  own  ! 
0  to  be  left  in  the  wide  world  alone  ! 
Long,  with  our  little  one.clasped  to  my  breast. 
Wandered  I,  seeking  for  refuge  and  rest ; 
Yet  all  the  world  was  so  careless  and  cold, 
Vainly  I  sought  for  a  sheltering  fold  ; — 
There  was  no  roof  and  no  home  for  my  head, 
Darling,    0  darling,  because  you  wrere  dead  ! 

Yet,  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  and  pain, 
Darling,  I  knew  I  should  find  you  again  ! 
Knew,  as  the  roses  know,  under  the  snow, 
How  the  next  summer  will  set  them  aglow  ; 
So  did  I  always,  the  dreary  days  through, 
Keep  my*  heart  single  and'  sacred  to  you 
As  on  the  beautiful  day  we  were  wed, 
Darling,  0  darling,  although  you  were  dead  ! 

0  the  great  joy  of  awaking,  to  know 

1  did  but  dream  all  that  torturing  woe  ! 

0  the  delight,  that  my  searching  can  trace 
Nothing  of  coldness  or  change  in  your  face  ! 
Still  is  your  forehead  unfurrowed  and  fair  ; 
None  of  the  gold  is  lost  out  of  your  hair, 
None  of  the  light  from  your  dear  eyes  has 

tied— 
Darling,  0  how  could  I  dream  you  were  dead  ? 

Now  you  are  here,  you  will  always  remain, 
Never,  O  never  to  leave  me  again  ! 
How  it  has  vanished,  the  anguish  of  years  ! 
Vanished !    nay,   these    are    not    sorio \vful 

tears, — 

Happiness  only  my  cheek  has  impearled, — 
There  is  no  grieving  for  me  in  the  world  ; 
Dark  clouds  may  threaten,  but  I  have  no  fear, 
Darling,  O  darling,  because  you  are  here  ! 


ANSWER  ME. 

IF  you  love  me,  friend,  to-night, 

Much  and  tenderly, 
Let  me  rest  my  wearied  head 

Here  upon  your  knee  ; 
And  the  while  I  question  you, 

Prithee  answer  me, — 
Answer  me ! 

Is  there  not  a  gleam  of  peace 
On  this  tiresome  earth  ? 

Does  not  one  oasis  cheer 
All  this  dreary  dearth  ? 

And  does  all  this  toil  and  pain 
Give  no  blessing  birth  ? 
Answer  me  ! 

Comes  there  never  quiet,  when 
Once  our  hearts  awake  ? 

Must  they  then  for  evermore 
Labor,  strive,  and  ache? 

Have  they  no  inheritance 
But  to  bear — and  break  ? 
Answer  me  1 


408 


MRS     ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN. 


THE  SPARROW  AT  SEA. 

AGAINST  the  baffling  winds,  with  slow  ad 
vance, 

One  drear  December  day, 
Up  the  vexed  Channel,  toward  the  coast  of 

France, 
Our  vessel  urged  her  way. 

Around  the  dim  horizon's  misty  slopes 

The  storm  its  banners  hung ; 
And,  pulling  bravely  at  the  heavy  ropes, 

The  dripping  sailors  sung. 

A  little  land-bird,  from  its  home-nest  warm, 

Bewildered,  driven,  and  lost, 
With  wearied  wings,  came  drifting  on  the 
storm, 

From  the  far  English  coast. 

Blown  blindly  onward,  with  a  headlong  speed 

It  could  not  guide  or  check, 
Seeking  some  shelter  in  its  utter  rieed, 

It  dropped  upon  the  deck. 

Forgetting  all  its  dread  of  human  foes, 

Desiring  only  rest, 
It  folded  its  weak  wings,  and  nestled  close 

And  gladly  to  my  breast. 

Wherefore,  I  said,  this  little  nickering  life, 

Which  now  all  panting  lies, 
Shall  yet  forget  its  peril  and  its  strife, 

And  soar  in  sunny  skies. 

To-morrow,  gaining  England's  shore  again, 

Its  wings  shall  find  their  rest ; 
And  soon,  among  the  leaves  of  some  green 
lane, 

Brood  o'er  a  summer.nest. 

And  when,  amid  my  future  wanderings, 
My  far  and  devious  quest, 

I  hear  a  warbling  bird,  whose  carol  rings 
More  sweetly  than  the  rest, — 

Then    I   shall   say,  with   heart   awake    and 

warm, 

And  sudden  sympathy, 
'  It  is  the  bird  I  sheltered  in  the  storm, 
The  life  I  saved  at  sea  !" 

But  whrn  the  morning  fell  across  the  ship, 

And  storm  and  cloud  were  tied, 
Tin-  golden  beak  no  longer  sought  my  lip, 

The  wearied  bird  was  dead. 

The  bitter  cold,  the  driving  wind  and  rain, 

Were  borne  too  many  hours  ; 
My  pity  came  too  late  and  all  in  vain, 

Sunshine  on  frozen  flowers. 

Thus  many  a  heart  which  dwells  in  grief 
and   tears, 

Braving  and  suffering  much, 
Bears  patiently  the  wrong  and  pain  of  years, 

But  breaks  at  Love's  first  touch  ! 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 


BACKWARD,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your 

flight, 

Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night  ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth    the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my 

hair  ; 

Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Backward,  flow  back  ward,  Otide  of  the  years! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain, — 
Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ! 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away ; 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  0  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ! 
Many  a  summer'the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  between  : 
Yet,  with    strong  yearning   and  passionate 

pain, 

Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  .days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone  ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures. — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours  : 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From   the    sick   soul   and   the    world-weary 

brain. 
Slumber's    soft    calms   o'er   my  heavy    lids 

creep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with 

gold, 

Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old  ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-niglit, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light  ; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  vir-ions  of  yore  ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years   have  been 

long 

Since  I  last  listened  your  JuFaby  fong  : 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  i-oul  it  i-hall  s(  t  m 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  die;  in. 
Clasped  to  your  heait  in  a  loving  ( inbiace. 
With   your  light  lashes   just  sweeping  my 

face, 

Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep 


MES.    ROLLIN    COOKE, 

(ROSE   TERRY.) 


DONE  FOR. 

A  WEEK  ago  to-day,  when  red-haired  Sally 

Down  to  the  sugar-camp  came  to  see  me, 
I  saw  her  checked  frock  coming  down  the 
valley, 

Far  as  any  body's  eyes  could  see. 
Now  I  sit  before  the  camp-fire, 

And  I  can't  see  the  pine-knots  blaze, 
Nor  Sally's  pretty  face  a-shining, 

Though  I  hear  the  good  words  she  says. 

A  week  ago  to-night  I  was  tired  and  lonely, 

Sally  was  gone  back  to  Mason's  Fort, 
And  the  boys  by  the  sugar-kettles  left  me 
only  ; 

They  were  hunting  coons  for  sport. 
By  there  snaked  a  painted  Pawnee, 

I  was  asleep  before  the  fire  ; 
He  creased  my  two  eyes  with  his  hatchet, 

And  scalped  me  to  his  heart's  desire. 

There  they  found  me  on  the  dry  tussocks 


Bloody  and  cold  as  a  live  man  could  be  ; 
A  hoot-owl  on  the  branches   overhead  was 

crying, 

Crying  murder  to  the  red  Pawnee. 
They  brought  me  to  the  camp-fire, 

They   washed    me    in    the    sweet    white 

spring  ; 

But  my  eyes  were  full  of  flashes, 
And  all  night  my  ears  would  sing. 

I  thought  I  was  a  hunter  on  the  prairie, 

But  they  saved  me  for  an  old  blind  dog  ; 
When   the   hunting-grounds    are    cool    and 
airy, 

I  shall  lie  here  like  a  helpless  log. 
I  can't  ride  the  little  wiry  pony, 

That  scrambles  over  hills  high  and  low  ; 
I  can't  set  my  traps  for  the  cony, 

Or  bring  down  the  black  buffalo. 

I'm  no  better  than  a  rusty,  bursted  rifle, 

And  I  don't  see  signs  of  any  other  trail  ; 
Here  by  the  camp-fire  blaze  I  lie  and  stifle, 

And  hear  Jim  fill  the  kettles  with  his  pail. 
Its  no  use  groaning.     I  like  Sally, 

But  a  Digger  squaw  wouldn't  have  me  ! 
I  wish  they  hadn't  found  me  in  the  valley,  — 

It's  twice  dead  not  to  see  ! 


AFTER  THE  CAMANCHES. 


SADDLE,  saddle,  saddle  ! 

Mount  and  gallop  away  ! 
Over  the  dim  green  prairie, 

Straight  on  the  track  of  day, 


Spare  not  spur  for  mercy, 
Hurry  with  shout  and*  thong, 

Fiery  and  tough  is  the  mustang, 
The  prairie  is  wide  and  long. 

Saddle,  saddle,  saddle  ! 

Leap  from  the  broken  door 
Where  the  brute  Camanche  entered 

And  the  white -foot  treads  110  more. 
The  hut  is  burned  to  ashes, 

There  are  dead  men  stark  outside, 
But  only  a  long  dark  ringlet 

Left  of  the  stolen  bride. 

Go,  like  the  east-wind's  howling  ! 

Ride  with  death  behind. 
Stay  not  for  food  or  slumber, 

Till  the  thieving  wolves  ye  find ! 
They  came  before  the  wedding, 

Swifter  than  prayer  or  priest ; 
The  bridemen  danced  to  bullets, 

The  wild  dogs  ate  the  feast. 

Look  to  rifle  and  powder ! 

Fasten  the  knife-belt  sure  ; 
Loose  the  coil  of  the  lasso, 

Make  the  loop  secure  ; 
Fold  the  flask  in  the  poncho, 

Fill  the  pouch  with  maize, 
And  ride  as  if  to-morrow 

Were  the  last  of  living  days  ! 

Saddle,  saddle,  saddle  ! 

Redden  spur  and  thong  ; 
Ride  like  the  mad  tornado, 

The  track  is  lonely  and  long. 
Spare  not  horse  nor  rider ; 

Fly  for  the  stolen  bride  ; 
Bring  her  home  on  the  crupper, 

A  scalp  on  either  side  ! 


DOUBT. 


THE  bee  knows  honey, 

And  the  blossoms  light, 
Day  the  dawning, 

Stars  the  night ; 
The  slow,  glad  river 

Knows  its  sea  : 
Is  it  true,  Love, 

I  know  not  thee  *! 

When  the  Summer 

Brings  snow-drifts  piled, 
When  the  planets 

Go  wandering  wild, 
When  th-e  old  hill-tops 

Valleys  be, — 
Tell  me  true,  Love, 

Shall  I  know  thee  ? 


410 


MRS.    ROLLIN    COOKE. 


Where'er  I  wander, 

By  sea  or  shore, 
A  dim,  sweet  vision 

Flies  fast  before, 
Its  lingering  shadow 

Floats  over  rne  ; — 
I  know  thy  shade,  Love, 

Do  I  know  thee  ? 

"  Rest  in  thy  dreaming, 

Child  divine ! 
What  grape-bloom  knoweth 

Its  fiery  wine  ? 
Only  the  sleeper 

No  sun  can  see  ; 
He  that  doubteth 

Knows  not  me." 


CAIN. 


HERE   it   found  me—"  Where   is  thy  bro 
ther?" 

Out  of  the  very  heavens  it  fell, 
Sharp  as  a  peal  of  rattling  thunder, 

Then  the  echo  leapt  up  from  hell. 

He — Jehovah — "  Where  is  thy  brother  ?  " 
I  knew,  He  knew — the  devil  laughed. 

He  that  gave  me  the  staff  to  fell  him. 
So  the  archer  reviled  the  shaft ! 

Oh,  my  brother,  my  brother,  my  brother ! 

Thy  blood  panted  and  throbbed  in  me. 
We  were  children  of  one  mother, 

Little  children  upon  her  knee. 

Oh,  my  brother,  my  brother,  my  brother  ! 

Sad-eyed,  tender,  good,  and  true. 
Never  more  on  hill  or  valley, 

Never  tracked  through  the  morning  dew. 

I  held  up  the  staff  before  me, 

Down  it  crashed  on  the  gentle  head. 

One  live  look  of  wondering  sorrow, 
One  sharp  quiver— that  was  dead. 

Thou  !  Thou  gavest  me  a  brother- 
Gave  me  a  life  to  cast  away — 

Hast  Thou  in  heaven  such  another  ? 
Hast  Thou  in  heaven  a  sword  to  slay  ? 

Hasten  Thou — "  Where  is  thy  brother?  " 
Voice  my  curst  lips  dare  not  name. 

Hasten  !  write  with  thy  fiery  finger 
On  my  forehead  the  murderer's  shame. 

I  am  doomed — alone  for  ever. 

Yet,  so  long  as  the  slow  years  part, 
Thou  shalt  brand  new  Cains  with  curses, 

Not  on  the  forehead,  but  in  the  heart ! 


CHE  SARA  SARA." 


E  walked  in  the  garden 

And  a  rose  hung  on  a  tree, 
Red  as  heart's  blood, 

Fair  to  see. 
"  Ah.  kind  south-wind, 

Bend  it  to  me  !  " 
But  the  wind  laughed  softly, 

And  blew  to  the  sea. 


High  on  the  branches, 

Far  above  her  head, 
Like  a  king's  cup 

Round,  and  red. 
"  I  am  comely," 

The  maiden  said, 
"  I  have  gold  like  shore-sand, 

I  wish  I  were  dead  ! 

"  Blushes  and  rubies 

Are  not  like  a  rose, 
Through  its  deep  heart 

Love-life  flow's. 
Ah,  what  splendors 

Can  give  me  repose ! 
What  is  all  the  world  worth  ? 

I  cannot  reach  my  rose." 


MIDNIGHT. 


THE  west -wind  blows,  the  west- wind  blew, 

The  snow  hissed  cruelly, 
All  night  I  heard  the  baffled  cry 

Of  mariners  on  the  sea. 

I  saw  the  icy  shrouds  and  sail, 

The  slippery,  reeling  deck, 
And  white-caps  dancing  pale  with  flame, 

The  corpse-lights  of  the  wreck. 

The  west- wind  blows,  the  west- wind  blew, 

And  on  its  snowy  way, 
That  hissed  and  hushed  like  rushing  sand, 

My  soul  fled  far  away. 

The  snow  went  toward  the  morning  hills 

In  curling  drifts  of  white, 
But  I  went  up  to  the  gates  of  God 

Through  all  the  howling  night. 

I  went  up  to  the  gates  of  God ; 

The  angel  waiting  there,     . 
Who  keeps  the  blood-red  keys  of  Heaven, 

Stooped  down  to  hear  my  prayer. 

"  Dear  keeper  of  the  keys  of  Heaven, 

A  thousand  souls  to-night 
Are  torn  from  life  on  land  and  sea, 

While  life  was  yet  delight. 

"  But  I  am  tired  of  storms  and  pain  ; 

Sweet  angel,  let  me  in ! 
And  send  tome  strong  heart  back  again, 

To  suffer  and  to  r-in." 

The  angel  answered — stern  and  slow — 

"  How  da  rest  thou  be  dead, 
While  God  seeks  dust  to  make  the  street 

Where  happier  men  may  tread? 

"Go  back,  and  eat  earth's  bitter  herbs, 

Go,  hear  its  dead-hell?  toll  ; 
Lie  speechless  underneath  their  feet, 

Who  tread  across  thy  soul. 

"  Go,  learn  the  patience  of  the  Lord 
Whose  righteous  judgments  wait ; 

Thy  murdered  cry  may  cleave  the  ground, 
But  not  unbar  His  gate." 


MRS.    ROLLIN    COOKE. 


411 


Right    backward,     through     the    whirling 
snow — 

Back,  on  the  battling  wind, 
My  soul  crept  slowly  to  its  lair, 

The  body  left  behind. 

The  west-wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew, 

There  are  dead  men  on  the  sea, 
And  landsmen  dead,  in  shrouding  drifts — 

But  there  is  life  in  me. 


AT  LAST. 

THE  old,  old  story  o'er  again — 
Made  up  of  passion,  parting,  pain. 
He  fought  and  fell,  to  live  in  fame, 
But  dying  only  breathed  her  name. 

Some  tears,  most  sad  and  innocent ; 
Some  rebel  thoughts,  but  all  unmeant ;' 
Then,  with  a  silent,  shrouded  heart, 
She  turned  to  life  and  played  her  part. 

Another  man,  who  vowed  and  loved, 
Her  patient,  pitying  spirit  moved, 
Sweet  hopes  the  dread  of  life  beguiled, — 
The  lost  love  sighed, — the  new  love  smiled. 

So  she  was  wed  and  children  bore, 
And  then  her  widowed  sables  wore  ; 
Her  eyes  grew  dim,  her  tresses  gray, 
And  dawned  at  length  her  dying  day. 

Her  children  gather, — some  are  gone, 
Asleep  beneath  a  lettered  stone  ; 
The  living,  cold  with  grief  and  fear, 
Stoop  down  her  whispering  speech  to  hear. 

No  child  she  calls,  no  husband  needs. 

At  death's  sharp  touch  the  old  wound  bleeds  : 

"  Call   him  !  "    she   cried, — her  first    love's 

name 
Leapt  from  her  heart  with  life's  last  flame. 


DECEMBER  XXXI. 

THERE  goes  an  old  Gaffer  over  the  hill, 

Thieving,  and  old,  and  gray; 
He  walks  the  green  world,  his  wallet  to  fill, 

And  carries  good  spoil  away. 

Into  his  bag  he  popped  a  king  ; 

After  him  went  a  friar, 
Many  a  lady,  with  gay  gold  ring, 

Many  a  knight  and  squire. 

He  carried  my  true  love  far  away, 

He  stole  the  dog  at  my  door ; 
The  wicked  old  Gaffer,  thieving  and  gray, 

He'll  never  come  by  any  more. 

My  little  darling,  white  and  fair, 

Sat  in  the  door  and  spun  ; 
He  caught  her  fast  by  her  silken  hair, 

Before  the  child  could  run. 

He  stole  the  florins  out  of  my  purse, 
The  sunshine  out  of  mine  eyes  ; 

He  stole  my  roses,  and,  what  is  worse, 
The  gray  old  Gaffer  told  lies. 


He  promised  fair  when  he  came  by, 
And  laughed  as  he  slipped  away, 

For  every  promise  turned  out  a  lie  ; 
But  his  tale  is  over  to-day. 

Good-by,  old  Gaffer !  you'll  come  no  more, 
You've  done  your  worst  for  me. 

The  next  gray  robber  will  pass  my  door, 
There's  nothing  to  steal  or  see. 


NEW  MOON. 

ONCE,  when  the  new  moon  glittered 

So  slender  in  the  West, 
I  looked  across  my  shoulder, 

And  a  wild  wish  stirred  my  breast. 

Over  my  white,  right  shoulder 
I  looked  at  the  silver  horn, 

And  wished  a  wish  at  even 
To  come  to  pass  in  the  morn. 

Whenever  the  new  moon  glittered, 

So  slender  and  so  fine, 
I  looked  across  my  shoulder, 

And  wished  that  wish  of  mine  ! 

Now,  when  the  West  is  rosy, 

And  the  snow-wreaths  blush  below, 

And  I  see  the  light  white  crescent 
Float  downward,  soft  and  slow  ; 

I  never  look  over  my  shoulder, 

As  I  used  to  look  before  ; 
For  my  heart  is  older  and  colder, 

And  now  I  wish  no  more  ! 


INDOLENCE. 

INDOLENT,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent ; 

So  is  the  grass  growing  tenderly,  slowly  ; 

So  is  the  violet  fragrant  and  lowly, 
Drinking  in  quietness,  peace,  and  content ; 

So  is  the  bird  on  the  light  branches  swing 
ing, 

Idly  his  carol  of  gratitude  singing, 
Only  on  living  and  loving  intent. 

Indolent,  indolent  !  yes,  I  am  indolent  ; 

So  is  the    cloud   overhanging  the   moun 
tain  ; 

So  is  the  tremulous  wave  of  a  fountain, 
Uttering  softly  its  silvery  psalm. 

Nerve  and  sensation,  in  quiet  reposing, 

Silent  as  blossoms  the  night-dew  is  cios- 

mS'> 

But   the    full   heart    beating    strongly    and 
calm. 

Indolent,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent, 
If  it  be  idle  to  gather  my  pleasure 
Out  of  creation's  iiucoveted  treasure, 
Midnight  and  morning,  by  forest  and  sea, 
Wild  with  the  tempest's  sublime  exulta 
tion, 

Lonely  in  Autumn's  forlorn  lamentation, 
Hopeful   and   happy   with   Spring   and   the 
bee. 


412 


MRS.    ROLL  IN    COOKE. 


Indolent,  indolent !  are  ye  not  indolent  ? 
Thralls  of  the  earth  and  its  usages  weary, 
Toiling  like  gnomes  where  the  darkness  is 

dreary, 

Toiling-  and  sinning-  to  heap  up  your  gold  ! 
Stirling  the  heavenward  breath  of  devo 
tion, 

Crushing  Ihe  freshness  of  every  emotion  ; 
Hearts  like  the  dead  which  are  pulseless  and 
cold! 

Indolent,  indolent !  art  thou  not  indolent  ? 

Thou  who  art  living  unloving  and  lonely, 

Wrapt  in  a  pall  that  will  cover  thee  only, 
Shrouded  in  selfishness,  piteous  ghost ! 

Sad   eyes    behold  thee,   and    angels    are 
weeping 

O'er  thy  forsaken  and  desolate  sleeping; 
Art  thou  not  indolent  ?  art  thou  not  lost  ? 


NEMESIS. 


WITH  eager  steps  I  go 

Across  the  valleys  low, 

Where  in  deep  brakes  the  writhing  serpents 
hiss. 

Above,  below,  around, 

I  hear  the  dreadful  sound 
Of  thy  calm  breath,  eternal  Nemesis. 

Over  the  mountains  high, 

Where  silent  snow-drifts  lie, 
And  greet  the  red  morn  with  a  pallid  kiss, 

There,  in  the  awful  night, 

I  see  the  solemn  light 
Of  thy  clear  eyes,  avenging  Nemesis  I 

Far  down  in  lonely  caves, 

Dark  as  the  empty  graves 
That  wait  our  dead  hopes  and  our  perished 
bliss, 

Though  to  their  depths  I  flee, 

Still  do  my  fixed  eyes  see 
Thy  pendant,  sword,  unchanging  Nemesis  ! 

Inevitable  fate  ! 

Still  must  thy  phantoms  wait 
And  mock  my  shadow  like  its  fearful  twin  ? 

Is  there  no  final  rest 

In  this  doom-haunted  breast? 
Does  thy  terrific  patience  wait  therein  ? 

"  Aye  !  wander  as  thou  wilt. 
The  blood  thy  hand  hath  spilt 
Stamps    on    thy   brow    its    black,    eternal 

sign  ; 

Thyself  thou  canst  not  flee. 
Writhe  in  thine  agony  ! 

Suffer!  despair!    thou  art  condemned — and 
mine." 


TRUTHS. 

I  WEAK  a  rose  in  my  hair, 

Because  I  feel  like  a  weed; 
Who  knows  that  the  rose  is  thorny 

And  makes  my  temples  bleed? 
If  one  gets  to  his  journey's  end,  what  matter 
how  galled  the  steed? 


I  gloss  my  face  with  laughter, 

Because  I  cannot  be  calm  ; 
When  you  listen  to  the  organ, 

Do  you  hear  the  words  of  the  psalm  ? 
If  they  give  you  poison  to  drink,  'tis  better 
to  call  it  balm. 

If  I  sneer  at  youth's  wild  passion. 
Who  fancies  I  break  my  heart  ? 
'Tis  this  world's  righteous  fashion, 

With,  a  sneer  to  cover  a  smart. 
Better  to  give   up  living  than  not  to  play 
your  part. 

If  I  scatter  gold  like  a  goblin, 

My  life  may  yet  be  poor. 
Does  Love  come  in  at  the  window 

When  Money  stands  at  the  door  ? 
I  am  what  I  seem  to  men.     Need  I  be  any 
more? 

God  sees  from  the  high  blue  heaven, 

He  sees  the  grape  in  the  flower ; 
He  hears  one's  life-blood  dripping- 
Through  the  maddest,  merriest  hour  ; 
He  knows  what  sackcloth  and  ashes  hide  in 
the  purple  of  power. 

The  broken  wing  of  the  swallow 

He  binds  in  the  middle  air  ; 
I  shall  be  what  I  am  in  Paradise — 

So,  heart,  no  more  despair  ! 
Remember  the  blessed  Jesus,  and  wipe  his 
feet  with  thy  hair. 


A  CHILD'S  WISH. 


"  BE  my  fairy,  mother, 

Give  me  a  wish  a  day  ; 
Something,  as  well  in  sunshine 
As  when  the  rain-drops  play." 

"  And  if  I  were  a  fairy, 

With  but  one  wish  to  spare, 
What  should  I  give  thee,  darling, 
To  quiet  thine  earnest  prayer  ?  " 

"  I'd  like  a  little  brook,  mother, 

All  for  my  very  own, 
To  laugh  all  day  among  the  trees, 
And  shine  on  the  mossy  stone ; 

"  To  run  right  under  the  window, 

And  sing  me  fast  asleep, 
With  soft  steps,  and  a  tender  sound 
Over  the  grass  to  creep. 

"  Make  it  run  down  the  hill,  mother, 

With  a  leap  like  a  tinkling  bell, 
So  fast  I  never  can  catch  the  leaf 
That  into  its  fountain  fell. 

"  Make  it  as  wild  as  a  frightened  bird, 

As  crazy  as  a  bee, 
And    a    noise    like    the    baby's   funny 

laugh  ; 
That's  the  brook  for  me !  " 


MRS.    ROLLIN    COOKE. 


413 


THE  TWO  VILLAGES. 

OVER  the  river,  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still ; 
All  around  it  the  forest -trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze  ; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow, 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river,  under  the  hill, 
Another  village  lieth  still ; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river  shore ; 
And  in  the  roads  no  grasses  grow, 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and 

flowers  ; 

Never  a  clock  to  toll  the  hours  ; 
The  marble  doors  are  always  shut, 
You  cannot  enter  in  hall  or  hut ; 
All  the  villagers  lie  asleep  ; 
Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap  ; 
Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh ; 
Silent  and  idle  and  low  they  lie. 

In  that  village  under  the  hill, 
When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer- 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 
And  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home  from  this  below  ; 
Longs  to  sleep  in  the  forest  wild, 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praying,  this  answer  fall : 
"  Patience  !    that  village  shall  hold  ye 
all ! " 


BLUE-BEARD'S  CLOSET. 


FASTEN  the  chamber ! 

Hide  the  red  key  ; 
Cover  the  portal, 

That  eyes  may  not  see. 
Get  thee  to  market, 

To  wedding  and  prayer  ; 
Labor  or  revel, 

The  chamber  is  there! 

In  comes  a  stranger — 

"  Thy  pictures  how  fine. 
Titian  or  Guido, 

Whose  is  the  sign  ?  " 
Looks  he  behind  them  ? 

Ah  !  have  a  care  ! 
"Here  is  a  finer." 

The  chamber  is  there  ! 

Fair  spreads  the  banquet, 

Rich  the  array  ; 
See  the  bright  torches 

Mimicking  day  ; 


When  harp  and  viol 
Thrill  the  soft  air, 

Comes  a  light  whisper  : 
The  chamber  is  there! 

Marble  and  painting, 

Jasper  and  gold, 
Purple  from  Tyrus, 

Fold  upon  fold, 
Blossoms  and  jewels, 

Thy  palace  prepare : 
Pale  grows  the  monarch  ; 

The  chamber  is  there! 

Once  it  was  open 

As  shore  to  the  sea  ; 
White  were  the  turrets, 

Goodly  to  see  ; 
All  through  the  casements 

Flowed  the  sweet  air ; 
Now  it  is  darkness  ; 

The  chamber  is  there  ! 

Silence  and  horror 

Brood  on  the  walls  ; 
Through  every  crevice 

A  little  voice  calls  : 
"  Quicken,  mad  footsteps, 

On  pavement  and  stair  ; 
Look  not  behind  thee, 

The  chamber  is  there  !  " 

Out  of  the  gateway, 

Through  the  wide  world 
Into  the  tempest 

Beaten  and  hurled, 
Vain  is  thy  wandering, 

Sure  thy  detpair, 
Flying  or  staying, 

The  chamber  is  there  ! 


THE  ICONOCLAST. 

A  THOUSAND  years  shall  come  and  go, 
A  thousand  years  of  night  and  day, 

And  man,  through  all  their  changing  show, 
His  tragic  drama  still  shall  play. 

Ruled  by  some  fond  ideal's  power, 

Cheated  by  passion  or  despair, 
Still  shall  he  waste  life's  trembling  hour, 

In  worship  vain,  and  useless  prayer. 

Ah  !  where  are  they  who  rose  in  might, 
Who  fired  the  temple  and  the  shrine, 

And  hurled,  through  earth's  chaotic  night, 
The  helpless  gods  it  deemed  divine? 

Cease,  longing  soul,  thy  vain  desire ! 

What  idol,  in  its  stainless  prime, 
But  falls,  untouched  of  axe  or  fire, 

Before  the  steady  eyes  of  Time  ? 

He  looks,  and  lo!  our  altars  fall, 
The  shrine  reveals  its  gilded  clay, 

With  decent  hands  we  spread  the  pall 
And,  cold  with  wisdom,  glide  away. 

Oh  !    where  were  courage,  faith,  and  truth. 
If  man  went  wandering  all  his  day 

In  golden  clouds  of  love  and  youth, 
Nor  knew  that  both  his  steps  betray  ? 


414 


MHS.    ROLLIN    COOKE, 


Come,  Time,  while  here  we  sit  and  wait, 
Be  faithful,  spoiler,  to  thy  trust ! 

No  death  can  further  desolate 

The  soul  that  knows  its  god  was  dust. 

SEMELE. 

"  For  thfre  bee  none  of  those  paean  fables  in  whiche  there  lyeth 
not  H  n, ore  suMIe  meanynge  than  ihe  extern  expression  thereof 
should  iitt  once  signit'ye,"—  Marr;a,'j<:»  <•/  ye  L'c.adc. 

SPIRIT  of  light  divine  ! 

Quick  breath  of  power, 
Breathe  on  these  lips  of  mine, 
Persuade  the  bud  to  flower  ; 
Cleave  thy  dull  swathe  of  cloud  !  110  longer 
waits  the  hour. 

Exulting,  rapturous  flame, 

Dispel  the  night ! 
I  dare  not  breathe  thy  name, 

I  tremble  at.  thy  light, 

Yet  come!  in  fatal  strength, — come,  in  all- 
matchless  might. 

Burn,  as  the  leaping  fire 

A  martyr  s  shroud  ; 
Burn,  like  an  Indian  pyre, 

With  music  fierce  and  loud. 
Come,  Power !    Love  calls  tliee, — come,  with 
all  the  god  endowed  ! 

Immortal  life  in  death, 
On  these  wrapt  eyes, 
On  this  quick,  failing  breath, 

In  dread  and  glory  rise. 

The  altar  waits  thy  torch,— come,  touch  the 
sacrifice  ! 

Come  !  not  with  gifts  of  life, 

Not  for  my  good  ; 
My  soul  hath  kept  her  strife 

In  fear  and  solitude; 

More  blest  the  inverted  torch,  the  horror- 
curdled  blood. 

Better  in  light  to  die 

Thau  silent  live  ; 
Rend  from  these  lips  one  cry, 

One  death-born  utterance  give, 
Then,    clay,   in    fire   depart !  then,   soul,   in 
heaven  survive  ! 


DEPARTING. 


WEEP  not  for  the  dead  !  they  lie 
Safe  from  every  changing  sky  ; 
Over  them  thou  shalt  not  cry 

Any  more. 

Weep  for  him  whose  lessening  sail, 
Borne  upon  an  outward  gale, 
Sees  ilie  beacon  faint  and  fail 

On  the  shore. 

vVeep  not>  for  the  dead  :  they  sleep 

Where  no  evil  visions  creep'; 

God  hath  sealed  their  slumber  deep 

Till  his  day. 

Weep  for  him  who  fleeth  fast 
On  a  fierce  and  alien  blast, 
Torn  from  all  the  haunted  past, 

Far  away. 


He  shall  never  see  again 
Home-lit  valley,  hill,  or  plain  ; 
He  shall  mourn  and  cry  in  vain 

O'er  the  dead. 

Wandering  in  a  stranger-land, 
None  shall  grasp  his  listless  hand, 
No  sweet  sister-nurse  shall  stand 

By  his  bed. 

Weep  for  him,  and  weep  for  those 
Who  shall  never  more  unclose 
Home's  dear  portals,  nor  repose 

In  its  rest. 

Foreign  where  their  kindred  dwell, 
Strange  where  they  have  loved  too  well, 
Home-sick  as  no  speech  can  tell, 

All  unblest. 

For  the  dead  thou  shalt  not  mourn, 
He  hath  reached  a  peaceful  bourne  ; 
Weep  for  him,  the  travel- worn, 

All  alone ! 

Life's  long  torture  he  must  bear 
Till  his  very  soul  despair, 
Helpless  both  for  cry  or  prayer ; 

Make  his  moan  ! 


LA  COQUETTE. 


You  look  at  me  with  tender  eyes, 
That,  had  you  worn  a  month  ago, 

Had  slain  me  with  divine  surprise  : — 
But  now  I  do  not  see  them  glow. 

I  laugh  to  hear  your  laughter  take 
A  softer  thrill,  a  doubtful  tone, — • 

I  know  you  do  it  for  my  sake. 

You  rob  the  nest  whose  bird  is  flown. 

Not  twice  a  fool,  if  twice  a  child  ! 

I  know  you  now,  and  care  110  more 
For  any  lie  you  may  have  smiled, 

Than  that  starved  beggar  at  your  door. 

He  has  the  remnants  of  your  feast ; 

You  offer  me  your  wasted  heart  ! 
He  may  enact  the  welcome  guest  ; 

I  shake  the  dust  off  and  depart. 

If  you  had  known  a  woman's  grace 
And  pitied  me  who  died  for  you, 

I  could  not  look  you  in  the  face, 

When  now  you  tell  me  you  are  "  true." 

True! — If  the  fallen  s.eraphs  wear 
A  lovelier  face  of  fa  Is*1  surprise 

Than  you  at  my  unmoving  air, 

There  is  no  truth  this  side  the  skies. 

But  this  is  true,  that  once  I  loved. — 
You  scorned  and  laughed  to  see  me  die  ; 

And  now  you  think  the  heart  so  proved 
Beneath  your  feet  again  shall  lie  ! 

I  had  the  pain  when  you  had  power  ; 

Now  mine  the  power,  who  reaps  the  pain? 
You  sowed  the  wind  in  that  black  hour; 

Receive  the  whirlwind  for  vour  gain  ! 


MKS.  ELIZABETH  STODDAKD. 


THE  CHIMNEY-SWALLOW'S  IDYL. 

FROM   where  I  built  the  nest  for  my  first 

young 

In  the  high  chimney  of  this  ancient  house 
I  saw  the  household  fires  burn  and  go  down, 
And  know  what  was  and  is  forever  gone. 
My  dusky,  swift-winged  fledegelings,  flying 

far 
To  seek  their  mates  in  clustered  eaves   or 

towers, 
Would    linger   not    to  learn    what  I  have 

learned, 

Soaring  through  air  or  steering  over  sea. 
These  single,  solitary  walls  must  fade ; 
But  I  return,  inhabiting  my  nest — • 
A  little  simple  bird,  which  still  survives 
The   noble  souls  now    banished    from   this 

hearth  ; 
And   none  are   here  besides  but    she    who 

shares 

My  life,  and  pensive  vigil  holds  with  me. 
No  longer  does  she  mourn  ;  she  lives  serene; 
I  see  her  mother's  beauty  in  her  face, 
I  see  her  father's  quiet  pride  and  power, 
The  linked  traits  and  traces  of  her  race  ; 
Her  brothers  dying,  like  strong  sapling  trees 
Hewn  down  by  violent  blows  prone  in  dense 

woods, 

Covered  with  aged  boughs,  decaying  slow. 
She  muses  thus  :  "  Beauty  once  more  abides  ; 
The  rude  alarm  of  death,  its  wild  amaze 
Is  over   now.     The    chance    of   change   has 

passed  ; 
No   doubtful    hopes   are    mine,   no   restless 

dread, 

No  last  word  to  be  spoken,  kiss  to  give 
And  take  in  passion's  agony  and  end. 
Tlr.'y  cannot  come  to  me,  but   in  good  time 
I  nil-ill  rejoin  my  silent  company, 
And  melt  among  them,  as  the  sunset  clouds 
Melt  in  gray  spaces  of  the  coming  night." 
So  she  holds  dear  as  I  this  tranquil  spot, 
And  all  the  flowers  that  blow,  and  maze  of 

green. 

The  meadows  da'sy-full,  or  brown  and  sear; 
The  shore  which  bounds  the  waves  I  love  to 

skim, 

And  dash  my  purple  wings  against  the  breeze. 
When  breaks  the  day  I  twitter  loud  and  long, 
To  make  her  rise  and  watch  the  vigorous  sun 
Come  from  his  sea-bed  in  the  weltering  deep, 
And  smell  the  dewy  grass,  still  rank  with 

sleep. 

I  hover  through  the  twilight  round  her  eaves, 
And  dart  above,  before  her,  in  her  path, 
Till,  with  a  smile,  she  gives  me  all  her  mind  ; 
And  in  the  deep  of  night,  lest  she  be  sad 
In  sleepless  thought,  I  gtir  me  in  my  nest, 


And  murmur  as  I  murmur  to  my  young ; 
She  makes  no  answer,  but  I  know  she  hears  ; 
And  all  the  cherished  pictures  in  her  thoughts 
Grow   bright   because   of   me,   her   swallow 
friend  ! 


BEFORE  THE  MIRROR. 


Now,  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott, 

I  dwell  within  an  empty  room, 
And  through  the  day,  and  through  the  night, 

I  sit  before  an  ancient  loom. 

And  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott, 

I  look  into  a  mirror  wide, 
Where  shadows  come,  and  shadows  go, 

And  ply  my  shuttle  as  they  glide. 

Not  as  she  wove  the  yellow  wool, 

Ulysses'  wife,  Penelope  ; 
By  day  a  queen  among  her  maids, 

But  in  the  night  a  woman,  she, 

Who,  creeping  from  her  lonely  couch, 
Unravelled  all  the  slender  woof  ; 

Or  with  a  torch  she  climbed  the  towers, 
To  fire  the  fagots  on  the  roof ! 

But  weaving  with  a  steady  hand 

The  shadows,  whether 'false  or  true, 

I  put  aside  a  doubt  which  asks, 

"Among  these  phantoms  what  are  you  ?" 

For  not  with  altar,  tomb,  or  urn, 

Or  long-haired  Greek  with  hollow  shield, 

Or  dark-prowod  ship  with  banks  of  oars, 
Or  banquet  in  the  tented  field  ; 

Or  Norman-knight  in  armor  clad, 

Waiting  a  foe  where  four  roads  meet ; 

Or  hawk  and  hound  in  bosky  dell, 

Where  chime  and  page  in  secret  greet ; 

Or  rose  and  lily,  bud  and  flower, 

My  web  is  b'roidered.     Nothing  bright, 

Is  woven  here  :  the  shadows  grow 
•Still  darker  in  the  mirror's  light  ! 

And  as  my  web  grows  darker  too, 
Accursed  seems  this  empty  room  ; 

I  know  I  must  forever  weave 

These  phantoms  by  this  hateful  loom. 


NOVEMBER. 

MUCH  have  I  spoken  of  the  faded  leaf  ; 

Long  have  I  listened  to  the  wailing  wind, 
And  watched  it  ploughing  through  the  heavy 
clouds  ; 

For  autumn  charms  my  melancholy  mind. 


416 


MRS.    ELIZABETH     STODDARD. 


When  autumn  conies,  the  poets  sing1  a  dirge  : 
The  year  must  perish  ;  all  the  flowers  are 

dead  ; 
The  sheaves  are  gathered  ;  and  the  mottled 

quail 
Runs  in  the  stubble,  but  the  lark  has  fled  ! 

Still,  autumn  ushers  in  the  Christmas  cheer, 
The  holly-berries  and  the  ivy-tree  : 

Thev  weave  a  chaplet  for  the  Old    Year's 

heir; 
These  waiting  mourners  do  not  sing  for  me! 

I  find   sweet   peace   in    depths  of    autumn 

woods, 

Where  grow  the  ragged  ferns  and  rough 
ened  moss ; 

The  naked,  silent  trees  have  taught  me  this, — 
The  loss  of  beauty  is  not  always  loss  ! 

"HALLO !  MY  FANCY,  WHITHER  WILT  THOU  GO  ?  " 


SWIFT  as  the  tide  in  the  river 
The  blood  flows  through  my  heart, 

At  the  curious  little  fancy 

That  to-morrow  we  must  part. 

It  seems  to  me  all  over, 

The  last  words  have  been  said  ; 
And  I  have  the  curious  fancy 

To-morrow  will  find  me  dead  ! 


ON  MY  BED  OF  A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

ON  my  bed  of  a  winter  night, 

Deep  in  a  sleep,  and  deep  in  a  dream, 

What  care  I  for  the  wild  wind's  scream? 
What  to  me  is  its  crooked  flight  ? 

On  the  sea  of  a  summer's  day, 

Wrapped  in  the  folds  of  a  snowy  sail, 

What  care  I  for  the  fitful  gale, 

Now  in  earnest,  and  now  in  play  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  fitful  wind, 

That,  groans  in  a  gorge,  or  sighs  in  a  tree  ? 
Groaning  and  sighing  are  nothing  to  me  ; 

For  I  am  a  man  of  steadfast  mind. 


THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  SEA. 

TO-NIGHT  I  do  the  bidding  of  a  ghost, 
A  ghost  that  knows  my  misery  ; 

In  the  lone  dark  I  hear  his  wailing  boast, 
"  Now  shalt  thou  speak  with  me." 

Must  I  go  Iri.-k  where  all  is  desolate, 
When-  reigns  the  terror  of  a  curse, 

To  knock,  a  beggar,  at  my  father's  gate, 
That  clo.sed  upon  a  hearse  ? 

The  old  stone  pier  has  crumbled  in  the  sea  ; 

The  tide  flows  through  the  garden  wall  ; 
Wln-n-  grew  the  lily,    and  where  hummed 

th;>  bee, 
Black  sea- weeds  rise  and  fall. 

I  see  the  empty  nests  beneath  the  eaves  ; 

No  bird  is  near  ;  the  vines  have  died  ; 
The  orchard  trees  have  lo-st  the  joy  of  leaves, 

The  oaks  their  lordly  pride. 


Of  what  avail  to  set  ajar  the  door 

Through  which,  when  ruin  fell,  I  fled  ? 
If  on  the  threshold  I  should  stand  once  more 

Shall  I  behold  the  dead  ? 
Shall  I  behold,  as  on  that  fatal  night, 

My  mother  from  the  window  start  ? 
When  she  was  blasted  by  the  evil  sight 

The  shame  that  broke  her  heart  'I 

The  yellow  grass  grows  on  my  sister's  grave  ; 

Her  room  is  dark — she  is  not  there  ; 
I   feel  the   rain,    and  hear  the   wild   wind 
rave — 

My  tears,  and  my  despair. 

A  white-haired  man  is  singing  a  sad  song 
Amid  the  ashes  on  the  hearth — 

"  Ashes  to  ashes,  I  have  moaned  so  long 
I  am  alone  on  earth." 

No  more  !  no  more  !  I  cannot  bear  this  pain  ; 

Shut  the  foul  annals  of  my  race  ; 
Accursed  the  hand  that  opejis  them  again, 

My  dowry  of  disgrace. 

And  so,  farewell,  thou  bitter,  bitter  ghost  ! 
When  morning  conies  the  shadows  fly  ; 
Before  we  part,  I  give  this  merry  toast, 
The  dead  that  do  not  die  ! 


YOU  LEFT  ME, 


You  left  me,  and  the  anguish  passed, 
And  passed  the  day  and  passed  the  night- 

A  blank  in  which  my  senses  failed  ; 
Then  slowly  came  a  mental  sight. 

So  plain  it  reproduced  the  hours 

We  lived  as  one — the  books  we  read, 

Our  quiet  walks  and  pleasant  talks — 
Love,  by  your  spirit  was  I  led? 

Oh,  love,  the  vision  grows  too  dear  : 

I  live  in  visions — I  pursue 
Them  only  ;  come,  your  rival  meet, 

My  future  bring,  it  will  be — you. 


THE  POET'S   SECRET. 

THE  poet's  secret  I  must  know, 

If  that  will  calm  my  restless  mind. 

I  hail  the  seasons  as  they  go, 

I  woe  the  sunshine,  brave  the  wind. 

I  scan  the  lily  and  the  rose, 

I  nod  to  every  nodding  tree, 
I  follow  every  stream  that  flows, 

And  wait  beside  the  rolling  sea. 
I  question  melancholy  eyes, 

I  touch  the  lips  of  women  fair  ; 
Their  lips  and  eyes  may  make  me  wise, 

But  what  I  seek  for  is  not  there. 
In  vain  I  watch  the  day  and  night, 

In  vain  the  world  through  space  may  roll 
I  never  see  the  mystic  light, 

Which  fills  the  poet's  happy  soul. 

To  hear  through  life  a  rhythm  flow, 
And  into  song  its  meaning  turn — 

The  poet's  secret  I  must  know  : — 
By  pain  and  patience  shall  I  learn  ? 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    STODDARD. 


41' 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 


I  FEEL  the  breath  of  the  summer  night, 

Aromatic  fire : 
The  trees,  the  vines,  the  flowers  are  astir 

With  tender  desire. 

The  white  moths  flutter  about  the  lamp, 

Enamored  with  lig'iit  ; 
And  a  thousand  creatures  softly  sing 

A  song  to  the  night ! 

But  I  am  alone,  and  how  can  I  sing 

Praises  to  thee  ? 
Come,  Night !  unveil  the  beautiful  soul 

That  waiteth  for  me. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  YOUTH. 


THE  rough  north  winds  have  left  their  icy 

caves 

To  growl  and  group  for  prey 
Upon  the  murky  sea  ; 

The  lonely  sea-gull  skims  the  sullen  waves 
All  the  gray  winter  day. 

The  mottled  sand-bird  runneth  up  and  down, 
Amongst  the  creaking  sedge, 

Along  the  crusted  beach  ; 
The  time-stained  houses  of  the   sea-walled 

town 
Are  tottering  on  its  edge. 

An  ancient  dwelling,  in  this  ancient  place, 

Stands  in  a  garden  drear, 

A  wreck  with  other  wrecks  ; 
The  Past  is  there,  but  no  one  sees  a  face 

Within,  from  year  to  year. 

The  wiry  rose-trees  scratch  the  window-pane; 

The  window  rattles  loud  ; 

The  wind  beats  at  the  door, 
But  never  gets  an  answer  back  again, 

The  silence  is  so  proud. 

The  last  that  lived  there  was  an  evil  man  ; 

A  child  the  last  that  died 

Upon,  the  mother's  breast. 
It  seemed  to  die  by  some  mysterious  ban  ; 

Its  grave  is  by  the  side 

Of  an  old  tree,  whose  notched  and 

leaves 
Repeat  the  tale  of  woe, 

And  quiver  day  and  night, 
Till  the  snow   cometh,   and   a   cold  shroud 

weaves, 
Whiter  than  that  below. 

This  time  of  year  a  woman  wanders  there — 

They  say  from  distant  lands  : 

She  wears  a  foreign  dress, 
With  jewels  on  her  breast,  and  her  fair  hair 

In  braided  coils  and  bands. 

The  ancient  dwelling  and  the  garden  drear 
At  night^know  something  more  : 
Without  her  foreign  dress 

Or  blazing  gems,  this  woman  stealeth  near 
The  threshold  of  the  door. 


scanty 


The  shadow  strikes  against  the  window  pane; 
She  thrusts  the  thorns  away : 

Her  eyes  peer  through  the  glass, 
And  down  the  glass  her  great  tears  drip,  like 

rain, 
In  the  gray  winter  day. 

The  moon  shines  down  the  dismal    garden 

track, 
And  lights  the  little  mound  ; 

But  when  she  ventures  there, 
The  black   and  threatening  branches  wave 

her  back, 
And  guard  the  ghastly  ground. 

What  is  the  story  of  this  buried  Past  ? 

Were  all  its  doors  flung  wide, 

For  us  to  search  its  rooms, 
And  we  to  see  the  race,  from  first  to  last, 

And  how  they  lived  and  died  : — 

Still  would  it  baffle  and  perplex  the  brain, 

But  teach  this  bitter  truth  : 

Man  lives  not  in  the  past  : 
None  but  a  woman  ever  comes  again 

Back  to  the  house  of  Youth ! 


THE  SHADOWS  ON  THE  WATER  REACH. 


THE  shadows  on  the  water  reach 
My  shadow  on  the  beach  ; 
I  see  the  dark  trees  on  the  shore, 
The  fisher's  oar. 

I  met  her  by  the  sea  last  night 
A  little  maid  in  white. 
I  shall  never  meet  her  more 
On  the  shore. 

Ho  !  fisher,  hoist  your  idle  sail 
And  whistle  for  a  gale  ; 
My  ship  is  waiting  in  the  bay, 
Row  away 


EXILE. 

MY  days  of  city  life  give  me  no  hope  ; 
They  pass  along,  unheeding  city  ways, 
To  find  a  happy  place  that  once  was  mine, 
And  meet  a  love  which  has  forsaken  me. 
Blind  in  these  stony  streets,  dumb  in  their 

crowds, 

What  can  I  do  but  dream  of  other  days  ? 
Whose  is  the  love  I  had,  and  have  not  now  ? 
If  it  be  Nature's,  let  her  answer  me. 
It  wanders  by  the  blue,  monotonous  sea, 
Where  rushes  grow,  or  follows  all  the  sweep 
Of  shallow  summer  brooks  and  umber  pools. 
Or  does  it  linger  in  those  hidden  paths 
Where  star-like  blossoms  blow  among  dea.l 

leaves, 

And  dark  groves  murmur  over  darker  shrubs, 
Birds  with  their  fledgelings  sleep,  and  pale 

moths  flit  ? 

With  sunset's  crimson  flags  perhaps  it  goes, 
And  re-appears  with  yellow  Jupiter, 
Riding  the  West  beside  the  crescent  moon. 
Comes   it  with   sunrise,   when   the    sunrise 

floats 


418 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    STODDARD. 


From  Night's  bold  towers,  vast  in  the  East, 

and  gray 

Till  tower  and  wall  flash  into  fiery  elouds, 
Moving  along  the  verge,  stately  and  slow, 
Ordered  by  the  old  music  of  the  spheres? 
Perchance  it  trembles  in  October's  oaks  ; 
Or,  twining  with  the   brilliant,  berried  vine, 
Would  hide  the  tender,  melancholy  elm. 
Well  might  it  rest  within  those  solemn  woods 
Where  sunlight  never  falls — whose  tops  are 

green 
With  airs  from  heaven, — its  balmy  mists  and 

rains, — 
While   underneath  black,  mossy,  mammoth 

rocks 
Keep   silence    with   the   waste   of    blighted 

boughs. 

If  winter  riots  with  the  wreathing  snow, 
And  ocean,  tossing  all  his  threatening  plumes, 
And  winds,  that  tear  the  hollow,  murky  sky, 
Can   this,    my  love,    which  dwells  no  more 

with  me, 
Find  dwelling  there, — like  some  storm-driven 

bird 
That  knows  not  whence  it  flew,  nor  where  to 

%> 

Between    the   world   of    sea,    and   world  of 

cloud, 
A,t  last  drops  dead  in  the  remorseless  deep  ? 


A  SEA-SIDE    IDYL. 


I  WANDERED  to  the  shore,  nor  knew  I  then 
What  my  desire, — whether  for  wild  lament, 
Or  sweet  regret,  to  fill  the  idle  pause 
Of  twilight,  melancholy  in  my  house, 
And  watch  the  flowing  tide,  the  passing  sails; 
Or  to  implore  the  air,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
For  that  etennl  passion  in  their  power 
Which  souls  like  mine  who  ponder  on  their 

fate 

May  feel,  and  be  as  they — gods  to  themselves. 
Thither  I  went,  whatever  was  my  mood. 
The  sands,,  the  rocks,  the  beds  of  sedge,  and 

waves. 
Impelled    to    leave    soft    foam,    compelled 

away, — 

I  saw  alone.     Between  the  East  and  West, 
Along  the  beach  no  creature   moved  besides. 
High  on    the     eastern   point    a    lighthouse 

shone  ; 

Steered  by  its  lamp  a  ship  stood  out  to  sea, 
And  vanished  from  its  rays  towards  the  deep, 
While  in  the  West,  above  a  W:M>  !.>d  He, 
An  island-cloud  hung  in  the  emeuM  sky, 
Hiding  pale  Venus  in  its   sombre  bLutie. 
1   wandered    up  and    down  the   sands,  I  loit 
ered 
Among  the  rocks,  and  trampled  through  the 

sedge  ; 

Bui   F  grew  weary  of  the  stocks  and  stones. 
"  1  will  go  hence,"  I  thought  ;  "  the  Elements 
Have  lost  their  charm  ;  my  soul  is  dead  to 
night. 

Oh  passive,  creeping  Sea,  and  stagnant  Air, 
Farewell !  dull   sands,  and  rocks,  and  sedge, 
farewell." 


Homeward  I  turned  my  face,  but  stayed  my 

feet. 

Should  I  go  back  but  to  revive  again 
The   ancient   pain  ?     Hark  !    suddenly  there 

came, 

From  over  sea,  a  sound  like  that  of  speech  ; 
And  suddenly  I  felt  my  pulses  leap 
As  though  some  Presence  were  approaching 

me. 
Loud  as  the  voice  of  "Ocean's  dark -haired 

king  " 
A  breeze  came  down  the  sea, — the  sea  rose 

high  ; 
The  surging  waves  sang  round  me — this  their 

song  : 
"  Oh,  yet  your  love  will  triumph  !     He  shall 

come 
In  love's  wild  tumult ;  he  shall  come  once 

more, — 

By  tracks  of  ocean,  or  by  paths  of  earth  ; 
The  wanderer  will  reach  you  and  remain." 
The  breakers  dashed  among  the  rocks,  and 

they 
Seemed  full  of  life  ;  the  foam  dissolved  the 

sands, 

And  the  sedge  trembled  in  the  swelling  tide. 
Was  this  a  promise  of  the  vaunting  Sea, 
Or  the  illusion  of  a  last  despair? 
Either,  or  both,  still  homeward  I  must  go, 
And  that  way  turned,  mine  eyes,  and  thought 

they  met 

A  picture, — surely  so, — or  I  wras  mad. 
The  crimson  harvest  moon  was  rising  full 
Above  my  roof,  and  glimmered  on  my  walls. 
Within  the  doorway  stood  a  man  I  knew — 
No  picture  this.     I  sawr  approaching  me 
Him  I   had   hoped    for,    grieved    for,    and 

despaired. 

"  My  ship  is  wrecked,"  lie  cried,  "  and  I  re 
turn 

Never  to  leave  my  love.  You  are  my  love  V '' 
"  I  too  am  wrecked,"  I  sighed,  "by  lonely 

years  ; 

Returning  you  but  find  another  wreck." 
He   bent  his   face    to    search    my   own,  an  1 

spake : 

"  What  1  have  traversed  sea  and  land  to  find, 
I  find.     For  liberty  I  fought,  and  life, 
On  savage    shores,  and  wastes  of    unknown 

seas, 
While  waiting  for  this  hour.     Oh,  think  you 

not 

Immortal  love  mates  with  immortal  love 
Always?     And   now,  at    last,   we  learn  this 

love." 

My  soul  was  filling  with  a  mighty  joy 
I  could  not  show  — yet  must  1   >how  my  love 
"  From    you  whose  will   divided   broke  our 

hearts 

I  now  demand  a  different  kiss  than  that 
Which  then  you  said  should  be  our  parting 

kiss. 

Given,  I  vow  the  past  shall  be  forgot. 
The   kiss  — and   we    are  one!     Give   me  the 

kiss." 

Like  the  dark  rocks  upon  the  sands  he  stood. 
When  on  his  breast  I  fell,  and  kissed  his  lips. 
All  the  wild  clangor  of  the  sea  was  hushed;  ' 
The  rapid  silver  waves  ran  each  to  each, 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    STODDARD. 


419 


Lapsed  in  the  deep  with  joyous,  murmured 

sighs. 

Years  of  repentence  mine,  forgiveness  his, 
To  tell.  Happy  we  paced  the  tranquil  shores, 
Till,  between  sea  and  sky  we  saw  the  sun, 
And  all  our  wiser,  loving1  days  began. 


UNRETURN1NG. 


Now  all  the  flowers  that  ornament  the  grass, 
Wherever  meadows  are  and  placid  brooks, 
Muot  fall— the  "  glory  of  the  grass"  must 

fall. 
Year   after    year   I   see    them    sprout    and 

spread— 

The  golden,  glossy,  tossing  butter-cups, 
The   tall,   straight    daisies   and    red    clover 

globes, 
The  swinging  bell-wort  and  the  blue-eyed 

blade, 
With   nameless  plants    as    perfect  in   their 

hues  — 

Perfect  in  root  and  branch,  their  plan  of  life, 
As  if  the  intention  of  a  soul  were  there: 
I  see  them  nourish  as  I  see  them  fall ! 

But   he,  who  once   was  growing  with  the 

grass, 

And  blooming  with  the  flowers,  my  little  son, 
Fell,  withered— dead,  nor  has  revived  again  ! 
Perfect  and  lovely,  needful  to  my  sight, 
Why  comes  he  not  to  ornament  my  days  ? 
The*  barren  fields  forget  their  barrenness, 
The  soulless  earth  mates  with  these  soulless 

thing,-, 

Why  fchould  I  not  obtain  my  recompense  ? 
The  'budding  spring  should  bring,  or  sum 
mer's  prime, 

At  least  a  vision  of  the  vanished  child, 
And  let  his  heart  commune  with  mine  again, 
Though  in  a  dream — his  life  was  but  a  dream  ; 
Then  might  1  wait  with    patient  cheerful 
ness — 
That  cheerfulness  which  keeps  one's    tears 

unshed, 
And  blinds  the  eyes  with  pain — the  passage 

slow 

Of  other  seasons,  and  be  still  and  cold 
As  the  earth  is  when  shrouded  in  the  snow, 
Or  passive,    like    it,  when    the  boughs  are 

stripped 

In  autumn,  and  the  leaves  roll  everywhere. 
And  he  should  go  again  ;  f or  winter's  snow, 
And  autumn's  melancholy  voice,  in  winds, 
In  waters,  and  in  woods,  belong  to  me — 
To  m:.' — a  faded  soul  ;  for,  as  1  said, 
The  sense  of  all  his  beauty  — sweetness  comes 
When  blossoms  are  the  sweetest  ;  when  the 

sea, 

Sparkling  and  blue,  cries  to  the  £tm  in  joy, 
Or,  silent,  pale,  and  misty  waits  the  night, 
Till  the  moon,  pushing  through  the  veiling 

cloud, 

Hangs  naked  in  its  heaving  solitude  : 
When  feathery  pines  wave  up  and  down  the 

shore, 

And  the  vast  deep  above  holds  gentle  stars, 
And  the  vast  world  beneath  hides  him  from 

me! 


THE  COLONEL'S  SHIELD. 

YOUR  picture,  slung  about  my  neck, 

The  day  we  went  a-field, 
Swung  out  before  the  trench  ; 
It  caught  the  eye  of  rank  and  file, 

Who  knew  '''  The  Colonel's  Shield." 

I  thrust  it  back,  and  with  my  men 

(Our  General  rode  ahead) 
We  stormed  the  great  redoubt, 
As  if  it  were  an  easy  thing, 

But  rows  of  us  fell  dead  ! 

Your  picture  hanging  on  my  neck, 

Up  with  my  men  1  rushed, — 
We  made  an  awful  charge  : 
And  then  my  horse,  "  The  Lady  Bess," 

Dropped,  and — my  leg  was  crushed  ! 

The  blood  of  battle  in  my  veins 
(A  blue-coat  dragged  me  out) — 

But  I  remembered  you  ; 

I  kissed  your  picture — did  you  know  ? 
And  yelled,  "  For  the  redoubt !  " 

The  Twenty  Fourth,  my  scarred  old  dogs, 
Growled  back,  "  He'll  put  us  through; 
We'll  take  him  in  our  arms : 
Our  picture  there — the  girl  he  loves, 
Shall  see  what  we  can  do." 

The  foe  was  silenced — so  were  we. 

I  lay  upon  the  field, 
Among  the  Twenty-Fourth  ; 
Your  picture,  shattered  on  my  breast, 

Had  proved  "  The  Colonel's  Shield." 


MERCEDES. 

UNDER  a  sultry,  yellow  sky, 

On  the  yellow  sand  I  lie  ; 

The  crinkled  vapors  smite  my  brain, 

I  smoulder  in  a  fiery  pain. 

Above  the  crags  the  condor  flies  ; 
He  knows  where  the  red  gold  lies, 
He  knows  where  the  diamonds  shine  ;- 
If  I  knew,  would  she  be  mine  ? 

Mercedes  in  her  hammock  swings  ; 
In  her  court  a  palm-tree  flings 
Its  slender  shadow  on  the  ground, 
The  fountain  falls  with  silver  sound. 

Her  lips  are  like  this  cactus  cup  ; 
With  my  hand  1  crush  it  up  ; 
I  tear  its  flaming  leaves  apart ; — 
Would  that  I  could  tear  her  heart ! 

Last  night  a  man  was  at  her  gate ; 
In  the  hedge  I  lay  in  wait ; 
I  saw  Mercedes  meet  him  there, 
By  the  fire-flies  in  her  hair. 

I  waited  till  the  break  of  day, 
Then  I  rose  and  stole  away; 
But  left  my  dagger  in  her  gate; — 
Now  she  knows  her  lover's  fate ! 


420 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    STODDARD. 


THE  BULL  FIGHT. 


ELEVEN  o'clock  : 

Here  are  our  cups  of  chocolate. 
Montez  will  fig-lit  the  bulls  to-day — 

All  Madrid  knows  that : 
Queen  Christina  is  going  in  state ; 

Dolores  will  go  with  her  little  fan ! 

Lace  up  my  shoe  : 

Put  on  my  Basquina  ; 
Can  you  see  my  black  eyes  ? 

I  am  Manuel's  duchess. 

In  front  of  the  box  of  the  Queen  and  the 

Duke 

Dolores  sits,  flirting  her  fan  ; 
The  church  of  St.  Agnes  stands  on  the  right, 
And  its  shadow  falls  on  the  picadors  ; 
On  their  old  lean  steads  they  prance  in  the 

ring, 
Hidalgo  fashion,  their  hands  on  their  hips. 

"Ha-f  Tor  of  Toro  !  " 
Good  !  the  horses  are  gored  ; 
Now  for  the  men. 

11  Ha!  Toro!  Torro  !  " 
Every  man  over  the  barrier ! 

Not  so  ;  for  there,  the  bull- fighter  stands  ; 
Some  little  applause  from  the  royal  box, 
And  "Montez!  Montez!    from  a  thousand 
throats ! 

The  bull  bows  well,  though  snorting  with 

rage, 
And  his  fore  leg  makes  little  holes  in  the 

ground  ; 
But   Montez  stands   still ;  his  ribbons  don't 

nutter  ! 

Saints  what  a  leap  ! 

See  his  rosette  on  the  bull's  black  horn  ; 
Montt-z  is  pale  ;  but  his  black  eye  shines, 
When  Dolores  cries — "  Kisses  for  Montez!  " 

Fie  !  Manuel's  duchess  ! 

A  minute  longer  the  fight  is  done  ; 
The  mule-bells  tinkle,  the  bull  rides  off ; 
Montez  twirls  a  new  diamond  ring, 
And  the  crowd  go  home  for  chocolate. 


EL    CAPITANO. 

I  FOUGHT  wolves  in  the  Pyrenees, 
Now  and  then  a  man  out  of  France ; 

Sling  your  guitar,  tap  on  the  board, 
Girls  of  the  village,  will  you  dance? 

My  heart  snaps,  chord  after  chord, 

When  you  sweep  the  strings  that  way  ; 

Tie  these  roses  around  my  gnn, 
I'll  be  cock-of -the- walk  to-day. 

Surely  I  am  a  pious  man, 

Every  day  I  go  to  mass. 
There  rides  my  lord — I'll  whet  my  knife, 

To-night  we'll  meet  in  Pajes'  pass. 

Ting-a-ling  !    will  you  marry  me, 
Girl  with  the  purple  braided  hair? 

Hark  ye,  come  and  share  my  home, 
Come  to  the  wild  guerilla's  lair. 


'Tis  leagues  beyond  these  orange  groves, 
In  the  caves  of  the  Pyrenees ; 

You'll  love  to  hear  their  torrents  roar 
And  the  moan  of  the  twisted  trees. 

Slip  your  fingers  under  my  sash  ; 

Do  you  feel  my  mad  heart  beat  ? 
I  swear  it  never  loved  before, 

Look  in  my  eyes — kiss  me,  sweet  ! 

Senoritas,  I  kiss  your  feet ; 

We  fight.  Senores — after  to-day  ! 
My  horse  is  here  — wre'll  ride  like  fiends, 

Spring  up  behind  me,  away,  away  ! 


ON  THE  CAMPAGNA. 


STOP  on  the  Appian  Way, 
In  the  Roman  Campagna  ; 

Stop  at  my  tomb, 
The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella. 

To-day  as  you  see  it, 
Alaric  saw  it,  ages  ago, 
When  he,  with  his  pale-visaged  Goths, 
Sat  at  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Reading  his  Runic  shield. 
Odin  !  thy  curse  remains  ! 

Beneath  these  battlements 
My  bones  were  stirred  with  Roman  pride, 
Though  centuries  before  my  Romans  died  : 
Now  my  bones  are  dust ;  the  Goths  are  dust. 
The  river-bed  is  dry  where  sleeps  the  king, 

My  tomb  remains  ! 
When  Rome  commanded  the  earth 

Great  were  the  Metelli : 

I  was  Metell^'s  wife  ; 

I  loved  him — and  I  died. 
Then  with  slow  patience  built  he  this  me 
morial  : 

Each  century  marks  his  love. 

Pass  by  on  the  Appian  Way 
The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  ; 

Wrild  shepherds  alone  seek  its  shelter, 

Wild  buffaloes  tramp  at  its  base. 
Deep  is  its  desolation, 
Deep  as  the  shadow  of  Rome  ! 


CHRISTMAS  COMES  AGAIN. 


LET  me  be  merry  now,  'tis  time, 

The  season  is  at  hand 
For  Chrismas  rhyme  and  Christmas  chime 

Close  up,  and  form  the  band. 

The  winter  fires  still  burn  as  bright, 

The  lamp-light  is  as  clear, 
And,  since  the  dead  are  out  of  sight, 

What  hinders  Christmas  cheer  ? 

Why  think  or  speak  of  that  abyss 

In  which  lies  all  my  Past  ? 
High  festival  I  need  not  miss, 

While  song  and  jest  shall  last. 

We'll  clink  and  drink  on  Christmas  Eve, 
Our  ghosts  .can  feel  no  wrong  ; 

They  revelled  ere  they  took  their  leave — 
Hearken,  my  Soldier's  Song  : 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    STODDARD. 


421 


"  The  morning  air  doth  coldly  pass, 
Comrades,  to  the  saddle  spring  ; 
The  night  more  bitter  cold  will  bring 
Ere  dying — ere  dying. 
Sweetheart,  come,  the  parting  glass, 
Glass  and  sabre,  clash,  clash, 
Ere  dying — ere  dying. 
Stirrup-cup  and  stirrup-kiss — 
Do  you  hope  the  foe  we'll  miss, 
Sweetheart,  for  this  loving  kiss, 
Ere  dying — ere  dying  !  " 

The  feasts  and  revels  of  the  year 

Do  ghosts  remember  long  V 
Even  in  memory  come  they  here  ? 

Listen,  my  Sailor's  Song  : 

"  0  my  hearties,  yo,  heave  ho  ! 

Anchor's  up  in  Jolly  Ba^ — 

Hey  ! 

Pipes  and  swipes,  hob  and  nob — 

Hey! 

Mermaid  Bess  and  Dolphin  Megg, 

Paddle  over  Jolly  Bay — 

Hey! 

Tars  haul  in  for  Christmas  Day, 

For  round  the'Varsal  deep  we  go  ; 

Never  church,  never  bell, 

For  to  tell 

Of  Christmas  Day. 

Yo,  heave  ho,  my  hearties  0  ! 

Haul  in,  mates,  here  we  lay — 

Hey  !  " 
His  sword  is  rustling  in  its  sheath, 

His  flag  furled  on  the  wall ; 
We'll  twine  them  with  a  holly-wreath, 

With  green  leaves  cover  all. 

So  clink  and  drink  when  falls  the  eve  ; 

But,  comrades,  hide  from  me 
Their  graves — I  would  not  see  them  heave 

Beside  me,  like  the  sea. 

Let  not  my  brothers  come  again, 

As  men  dead  in  their  prime  ; 
Then  hold  my  hands,  forget  my  pain, 

And  strike  the  Christmas  chime. 


LAST  DAYS. 


As  one  who  follows  a  departing  friend, 
Destined  to  cross  the  great,  dividing  sea, 
I  watcli  and  follow  these  departing  days, 
That  go  so  grandly,  lifting  up  their  crowns 
Still    regal,    though    their    victor    Autumn 

comes. 

Gifts  they  bestow,  which  I  accept,  return, 
As  irifts  exchanged  between  a  loving  pair, 
Who  may  possess  them  as  memorials 
Of  pleasures  ended. by  the  shadow — Death. 
What  matter  which'  shall  vanish  hence,  if 

both 

Arc  transitory — me,  and  these  bright  hours — 
And  of  the  future  ignorant  alike  V 
From  all  our  social  thralls  I  would  be  free. 
L'^t  care  go  down  the  wind — as  hounds  afar, 
Within  their  kennels  baying  unseen  foes, 
Give  to  calm  sleepers  only  calmer  dreams. 


Here  will  I  rest  alone  :  the  morning  mist 
Conceals  110  form  but  mine  ;    the   evening 

dew 
Freshens  but  faded  flowers   and  my  worn 

face. 
When  the  noon  basks  among  the  wooded 

hills 

I  too  will  bask,  as  silent  as  the  air 
So  thick  with  sun-motes,  dyed  like  yellow 

gold, 

Or  colored  purple  like  an  unplucked  plum. 
The  Thrush,  now  lonesome — for  her  young 

have  flown — 
May   flutter  her  brown  wings    across    my 

path  ; 

And  creatures  of  the  sod  witli  brilliant  eyes 
May  leap  beside  me,  and  familiar  grow. 
The   moon  shall   rise   among    her    floating 

clouds — 
Black,  vaporous  fans,  and  crinkled  globes  of 

pearl- 

And  her  sweet  silver  light  be  given  to  me. 
To  watch  and  follow  these  departing  days 
Must  be  my  choice  ;  and  let  me  mated  be 
With  Solitude  ;  and  memory  and  hope 
Unite  to  give  me  faith  that  nothing  dies  ; 
To  show  me  always,  what  I  prav  to  know, 
That  man  alone  may  speak  the  word — Pare- 
well. 


MEMORY  IS  IMMOETAL. 

TIME  passed,  as  passes  time  with  common 

souls 
Whose  thoughts  and  wishes  end  with  every 

day  ; 

For  whom  no  future  is— whose  present  hours 
Reveal  no  looming  shade  of  that  which  was. 

But  Memory  is  immortal,  for  she    comes 
To   me,   from   heaven  or  hell,  to  me,  once 

more ! 

As  birds  that  migrate  choose  the  ocean  wind 
That  beats  them  helpless,  while  it  steers 

them  home ; 

So  I  was  this  way  driven — I  chose  this  way — • 
Of  old  my  dwelling-place,    where  all  my  race 
Are  buried.    At  first  I  was  enchanted  here  ; 
Impassible  appeared  the  pall,  the  shroud  ; 
And  in  my  spell,  I  trod  the  grassy  streets, 
Wherein  the  summer  days  mild   oxen  drew 
The  bristling  hay,  and  in  the  winter  snows 
The   creaking  masts  and  knees  for  mighty 

ships, 

Whose  hulls  were  parted  on  the  coral  reefs, 
Or  foundered  in  the  depths -of  Arctic  nights. 
I  wandered  through  the  gardens  rank  and 

waste, 

Wonderful  once,  when  I  was  like  the  flowers  ; 
Along  the  weedy  paths  grew  roses  still, 
Surviving  empire,  but  remaining  queens. 

My  mood  established   by  the  slumbrous 

town — 
(Slumber  with  slumber,  dream  with  dream 

should  be) 

I  sought  a  mansion  on  the  lonely  shore, 
From  which,   his   feet  made  level  with  his 

head, 


MRS.    ELIZABETH    STODDARD. 


Its  occupant  was  gone.     I  lived  alone. 
Whoso,  beneath  this  roof,  had  played  his  part 
In  lifeVdeep  tragedy,  not  here  again 
Could  be  rehearsed  its  scenes  of  love  or  hate. 
Ui)on  the  ancient  walls  my  pictures  hung — 
Of  men  and  women,  strong  and  beautiful, 
Whose  shoulders  pushed  along  the  world's 

great  wheel : 
Landscapes,  where  cloud  and  mountain  rose 

as  one, 

Where  rivers  crept  in  secret  vales,  or  rolled 
Past  city  walls,  whose  towers  and  palaces 
By  slaves  were  builded,  and  by  princes  fallen! 
And  books  whose  pages  ever  told  one  tale, 
The  tale  of  human  love,  in  joy  or  pain, 
The  seed  of  our  last  hope — Eternity. 
Days  glided  by,  this  mirage  cheated  all ; 
Morn  came,  eve  went,  and  we  were  tranquil 

still. 

If  form,  and  sound,  and  color  fail  to  show, 
Bv  poet's,  painter's,  sculptor's  noble  touch, 
The  subtle  truth  of  Nature,  can  I  tell 
How  Nature  poised  my  mind  111  light  and 

shade  ? 

But  memory  is  immortal,  and  to  me 
She  advanced,  silent,  slow,  a  mutHed  shape. 
One  moonlight  night,  I  walked  through  long 

white  lanes ; 

The  sky  and  sea  were  like  a  frosted  web; 
The  air  was  heavy  with  familiar  scents, 
Which   travelled   down   the    wind,  I   knew 

from  where — 

The  fragrance   of   grove  of  Northern  pines. 
Mv    feet    were    hastening   thither — and  my 

heart  ? 

At  last  I  stood  before  a  funeral  mound, 
From  which  I  tied  when  vanished  love  and 

life- 
Long  years  ago— fled  from  my  father's  house  ; 
Banished  myself,  to  banish  him  I  loved — 
His  broken  history  and  his  early  grave. 
And  in  the  moonlight  Memory  floated  on, 
Immortal,  with  my  now  immortal  Love ! 


THE  MESSAGE. 

To  you,  my  comrades,  whether  far  or  near, 
1  send  this  message.      Let  our  past  revive; 
Come,  sound  reveille  to  our  hearts  once  more. 
Expecting,  I  shall  wait  till  at  my  door 
1  see  you  enter,  each  and  every  one 
Tumultuous,     eager     all,     with     clamorous 

speech, 
To  hide   my   stammering  welcome   and  my 

tears. 

I  am  no  host  carousing  long  and  late, 
Enticing  guests  with  epicurean  hints; 
Nor  am  1  Timon,  sick  of  this  sad  world, 
Who,  jesting,  cries,  "  The  sky  is  overhead. 
And  underneaih  that  famous  rest,  the  earth  : 
Show  ine  the  man  who  can  have  more  at  last." 


Without,  the  thunder  of  the  city  rolls  ; 
Withiu,  the  quiet  of  the  student  reigns. 
There  is   a    change.     Time   was  a  childish 

voice, 
Sweet  as  the  lark's  when  from  her  nest  she 

soars, 

Thrilled  over  all,  and  vanished  into  heaven. 
Music  once  triumphed  here  :  the  skillful  hand 
Of  him  who  rarely  struck  the  keys,  and  woke 
My  soul  in  harmony  grand  as  his  own, 
Is  folded  on  his  breast,  my  soldier  love. 
Here  hangs  his  portrait,  under  it,  his  sword  ; 
He  served  his  country,  and  his  grave's  afar. 
Dread  not  this  place  as  one  to  relics  given, 
His  w*ho  long  wandering  in  foreign  lands, 
Though  I  have  decked    wtili  amaranth  my 

wall, 

The  testimony  of  a  later  loss — 
Then  dying,  crossed  the  sea  to  die  with  me. 
Behold  the  sunrise  and  the  morning  clouds 
On  yonder  canvas,  misty  mountain-peaks — 
The  simple  grandeur  of  a  perfect  art ! 
Behold  these  vivid  woods,  that  gleam  beside 
The  happy  vision  of  an  autumn  eve, 
When  red  leaves   fall,   and  redder  sunsets 

fade ! 

The  world  grows  pensive  sinking  into  night, 
Whose    melancholy    space     hides     sighing 

winds  : 

Can  they  reply  to  sadder  human  speech  ? 
What  centuries  are  counted  here — my  books  ! 
Shadows  of  mighty  men  ;  the  chorus,  hark  ! 
The     antique     chant     vibrates,     and     Fate 

compels ! 

Comrades,  return  ;  the  midnight  lam])  shall 

gleam 

As  in  old  nights  ;  the  chaplets  woven  then — 
Withered,  perhaps,  by  time — may  grace  us 

vet ; 

The  laurel  faded  is  the  laurel  still, 
And  some  of  us  are  heroes  to  ourselves. 
And  amber  wine  shall  ilow  ;  the  blue  smoke 

wreathe 

In  droll  disputes,  with  metaphysics  mixed  ; 
Or  float  as  lightly  as  the  quick-spun  verse, 
Threading  the  circle  round  from  thought  to 

thought, 

Sparkling  and  fresh  as  is  the  airy  web 
Spread  on  the  hedge  at  morn  in  silver  dew. 
The  scent  of  roses  you  remember  well ;" 
In  the  green  vases  they  shall  bloom  again. 
And  me — do  you  remember?    I  remain 
Unchanged,  I  think  ;  though  one  1  saw  like 

me 

Some  years  ago,  with  hair  that  was  not  white; 
And  she  was  with  you  then,  as  brave  a   soul 
As   souls    can   be   whom   Fate    has   not  ap 
proached. 
But  seek  and   find  me   now,  unchanged  or 

changed, 
Mirthful  in  tears,  and  in  my  laughter  sad. 


MKS.    JULIA   C.    E.    DOER. 


OVER  THE  WALL. 


I  KNOW  a  spot  where  the  wild  vines  creep, 

And  the  coral  moss-cups  grow, 
And  where,  at  the  foot  of  the  rocky  steep; 

The  -sweet  blue  violets  blow. 
There  all  day  long,  in  the  summer  time, 
You  may  hear  the  river's  dreamy  rhyme ; 
There  all  day  long  does  the  honey-bee 
Murmur  and  hum  in  the  hollow-tree. 

And  there  the  feathery  hemlock  makes 

A  shadow  cool  and  sweet, 
While  from  its  emerald  wing  it  shakes 

Rare  incense  at  your  feet. 
There  do  the  silvery  lichens  cling, 
There  does  the  tremulous  harebell  swing  ; 
And  many  a  scarlet  berry  shines 
Deep  in  the  green  of  the  tangled  vines. 

Over  the  wall  at  dawn  of  day,, 

Over  the  wall  at  noon, 
Over  the  wall  when  the  shadows  say 

That  night  is  coming  soon, 
A  little  maiden  with  laughing  eyes 
Climbs  in  her  ea<>'er  haste,  and  hies 
Down    to    the  spot   where   the  wild    vines 

creep, 
And  violets  bloom  by  the  rocky  steep. 

All  wild  things  love  her.     The  murmuring 
bee 

Scarce  stirs  when  she  draws  near, 
And  sings  the  bird  in  the  hemlock -tree 

Its  sweetest  for  her  ear. 
The  harebells  nod  as  she  passes  by, 
The  violet  lifts  its  calm  blue  eye,  * 
The  ferns  bend  lowly  her  steps  to  greet, 
And  the  mosses  creep  to  her  dancing  feet. 

Up  in  her  pathway  seems  to  spring- 
All  that  is  sweet  or  rare, — 

Chrysalis  quaint,  or  the  moth's  bright  wing, 
Or  flower-buds  strangely  fair. 

She  watches  the  tiniest  bird's-nest  hid 

The  thickly -clustering  leaves  amid  ; 

And  the  small  brown  tree-toad  on  her  arm 

Quietly  hops,  and  fears  no  harm. 

Ah,  child  of  the  laughing  eyes,  and  heart 
Attuned  to  Nature's  voice  ! 

Thou  hast  found  a  bliss  that  will  ne'er  de 
part 
While  earth  can  say,  "  Rejoice  !  " 

The  years  must  come,  and  the  years  must 
go; 

But  the  flowers  will  bloom,  and  the  breezes 
blow, 

And  birds  and  butterfly,  moth  and  bee, 

Bring  on  their  swift  wings  joy  to  thee ! 


"EARTH  TO  EARTH." 

NOT  within  yon  vaulted  tomb, 
With  its  darkness  and  its  gloom, 
With  its  murky,  heavy  air, 
And  the  silence  brooding  there, 
Lay  me,  love,  when  I  must  be 
Hidden  far  away  from  thee. 

Open  not  the  iron  door, 
Oped  so  often  in  days  of  yore  ; 
Place  me  not  beside  the  dead, 
Whose  companionship  I  dread, 
Where  the  phantoms  come  and  go, 
Bending  o'er  the  coffins  low. 

But  when  one  with  icy  breath 
In  my  ear  has  whispered  "  death," 
When  the  heart  thy  voice  can  thrill, 
Has  grown  pulseless,  cold,  and  still, 
Kneel  beside  me,  o'er  me  bow, 
Press  thy  last  kiss  on  my  brow. 

Lay  me  then  to  dreamless  rest, 
With  the  sod  above  my  breast, 
In  some  quiet,  sheltered  spot, 
Peaceful  as  has  been  our  lot, 
Since  our  solemn  vows  were  said 
On  the  day  when  we  were  wed  ! 

Let  the  sunlight  round  me  play 
Through  the  long,  bright  summer  day  ; 
Let  old  trees  their  branches  wave 
O'er  my  green  and  grassy  grave, 
While  the  changing  shadows  flit 
In  strange  beauty  over  it. 

Plant  a  white  rose  at  my  feet, 

Or  a  lily  fair  and  sweet, 

With  the  humble  mignonnette 

And  the  blue-eyed  violet. 

So  beside  me,  all  day  long, 

Bird  and  bee  shall  weave  their  song. 

Then  methinks  at  eventide, 
With  our  children  by  thy  side, 
Darling !  thou  wilt  love  to  come 
To  my  calm  and  quiet  home  ; 
Thou  wilt  feel  my  presence  there, 
Filling  all  the  silent  air. 

Nearer  will  I  seem  to  thee. 
Sleeping  in  the  sunlight  free, 
Than  in  yonder  vaulted  tomb. 
With  its  darkness  and  its  gloom. 
"  Earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust  " 
Yield  thou,  love,  in  solemn  trust, 
When  our  last  farewell  is  said, 
And  thy  wife  is  with  the  dead  ! 


434 


MRS.    JULIA    C.    R.    DORR. 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-DAY. 

BUT  yesterday  among  us  here, 

One  with  ourselves  in  hope  and  fear  : 

Joying  like  us  in  little  things, 

The  sheen  of  gorgeous  insect  wings, 

The  song  of  bird,  the  hum  of  bee, 

The  white  foam  of  the  heaving  sea. 

Hut  yesterday  your  simplest  speech, 

Your  lightest  breath,  our  hearts  could  reach  ; 

Your  very  thoughts  were  ours.     Our  eyes 

Found  in  your  own  no  mysteries. 

Your  griefs,   your  joys,    your  prayers,   we 

knew, 

The  hopes  that  with  your  girlhood  grew, 
lint  yesterday  we  dared  to  say, 
'  'Twere  better  you  should  walk  this  way, 
Or  that,  dear  child  !     Do  thus,  or  so  ; 
Older  and  wiser  we,  you  know." 
We  gave  you  flowers  and  curled  your  hair, 
And  brought  new  robes  for  you  to  wear. 
To-day  how  far  away  thou  art ! 
In  all  thy  life  we  have  no  part. 
Hast  thou  a  want  ?     We  know  it  not ; 
Utterly  parted  from  our  lot, 
The  veriest  stranger  is  to  thee 
All  those  who  loved  thee  best  can  be. 

Deaf  to  our  calls,  our  prayers,  our  cries, 
Thou  dost  not  lift  thy  heavy  eyes  ; 
Nor  heed  the  tender  words  that  flow 
From  lips  whose  kisses  thrilled  thee  so 
But  yesterday  !     To-day  in  vain 
We  wait  for  kisses  back  again. 

To-day  no  awful  mystery  hid 
The  dark  and  mazy  past  amid 
Is  half  so  great  as*this  that  lies 
Beneath  the  lids  of  thy  shut  eyes, 
And  in  those  frozen  lips  of  stone, 
Impassive  lips,  that  smile  nor  moan. 

But  yesterday  with  loving  care 

We  petted,  praised  thee,  called  thee  fair; 

To-day,  oppressed  with  awe,  we  stand 

Before  that  ring-unfettered  hand, 

And  scarcely  dare  to  lift  one  tress 

In  mute  and  reverent  caress. 

But  yesterday  with  us.      To-day, 

Where  thou  art  dwelling,  who' can  say  ? 

In    heaven?      But  where?     Oh!    for  some 

spell 

To  make  thy  tongue  this  secret  tell ! 
To  break  the  silence  strange  and  deep, 
That  thy  sealed  lips  so  closely  keep  ! 

In  vain — in  vain  !     But  yesterday 
So  quick  to  answer  and  obey  ; 
To-day,  unmoved  by  word  or  tear, 
A  creature  of  another  sphere, 
Thou  heedest  us  no  more  than  they 
Who  passed  before  the  Flood  away  ! 

AGNES. 

AGXES  !  Agnes  !  is  it  thus 
Thou,  at  last,  dost  come  to  us  ? 
From  the  land  of  balm  and  bloom, 
Blandest  airs  and  sweet  perfume, 


Where  the  jasmine's  golden  stars 
Glimmer  soft  through  emerald  bars. 
And  the  fragrant  orange  flowers 
Fall  to  earth  in  silver  showers, 

Agnes  !  Agnes ! 

With  thy  pale  hands  on  thy  breast, 
Comest  thou  here  to  take  thy  rest  V 

Agnes !  Agnes  !  o'er  thy  grave 
Loud  the  winter  winds  will  rave, 
And  the  snow  fall  fast  around, 
Heaping  high  thy  burial  mound ; 
Yet,  within  its  soft  embrace, 
Thy  dear  form  and  earnest  face, 
Wrapt  away  from  burning  pain, 
Ne'er  shall  know  one  pang  again. 

Agnes !  Agnes ! 

Never  more  shall  anguish  vex  thee, 
Never  more  shall  care  perplex  thee. 

Agnes  !  Agnes  !  wait,  ah !  wait 
Just  one  moment  at  the  gate, 
Ere  your  poor  feet  enter  in, 
Where  is  neither  pain  nor  sin. 
Thou  art  blest,  but  how  shall  we 
Bear  the  pang  of  losing  thee  ? 
Thou  art  safe,  but  round  us  roll 
Billows  which  o'erwhelm  the  soul. 

Agnes  !  Agnes ! 

What  if  we  should  lose  our  way 
In  the  darkness  where  we  stray  ? 

Agnes  !  Agnes  !  turn  thine  ear 
From  the  anthems  swelling  clear  ; 
Passing  sweet  are  they  we  know, 
While  our  words  are  weak  and  low  ; 
But  we  love  thee  !  ah !  how  well 
Angel  tongue  could  never  tell ; 
List !  ice  love  thee  !     By  that  word 
Once  thy  heart  of  hearts  was  stirred. 

Agnes  !  Agnes ! 
By. that  love  we  bid  thee  wait 
Just  one  moment  at  the  gate ! 

Agnes  !  Agnes  !     No  !     Pass  on 
To  the  heaven  that  thou  hast  won  ! 
By  thy  life  of  brave  endeavor, 
Up  the  heights  aspiring  ever, 
Whence  thy  voice,  like  clarion  clear, 
Rang  out  words  of  lofty  cheer, — 
By  thy  laboring  not  in  vain, 
By  thy  martyrdom  of  pain, 

Our  Saint  Agnes — 
From  our  yearning  sight  pass  on 
To  the  Rest  that  thou  hast  won  ! 


UNDER  THE  PALM-TREES. 

WE  were  children  together,  you  and  I, 
AVe    trod    the    same    paths    in    davs    of 

old  ; 
Together  we  watched  the  sunset  sky, 

And  counted  its  bars  of  massive  gold. 
And  when  from  the  dark  horizon's  brim 
The  moon  stole  up  with  its  silver  rim, 
And  slowly  sailed  through  the  fields  of  air, 
We  thought  there  was  nothing  on  earth  so 
fair. 


MRS.    JULIA    C.    R.    DORR. 


425 


You  walk  to-night  where  the  jasmines  grow, 
And  the  Cross  looks  down  from,  the  tropic 
skies  ; 

Where  the  spicy  breezes  softly  "blow, 

And  the  slender  shafts  of  the  palm-trees 
rise. 

You  breathe  the  breath  of  the  orange  flow 
ers, 

And  the  perfumed  air  of  the  myrtle  bowers ; 

You  pluck  the  acacia's  golden  balls, 

And    mark    where    the     red    pomegranate 
falls. 

I  stand  to-night  on  the  breezy  hill, 

Where  the  pine-trees  sing  as  they  sang  of 

yore  ; 
The  north  star  burneth  clear  and  still, 

And  the  moonbeams  silver  your  father's 

door. 

I  can  see  the  hound  as  he  lies  asleep, 
In  the  shadow  close  by  the  old  well-sweep, 
And  hear  the  river's  murmuring  flow, 
As  we  two  heard  it  long  ago. 

Do  you  think  of  the  firs  on  the  mountain 
side, 

As  you   walk  to-night   where   the   palm- 
trees  grow  ? 

Of  the  brook  where  the  trout  in  the  dark 
ness  hide  ? 
Of  the  yellow  willows  waving  slow  ? 

Do  you  long  to  drink  of  the  crystal  spring, 

In   the   dell    where    the    purple    harebells 
swing  ? 

Would  your  pulses  leap  could  you  hear  once 
more 

The   sound   of  the  flail   on  the  threshing- 
floor  ? 

All !  the  years  are  long,  and  the  world  is 
wide, 

And  the  salt  sea  rolls  our  hearts  between  ; 
And  never  again  at  eventide 

Shall  we  two  gaze  on  the  same  fair  scene. 
But  under  the  palm-trees  wandering  slow, 
You  think  of  the  spreading  elms  I  know ; 
And  you  deem  our  daisies  fairer  far 
Than  the  gorgeous   blooms   of  the  tropics 
are  ! 


THE  LAST  OF  SIX. 

COME  in ;  you  are  welcome,    neighbor ;   all 

day  I've  been  alone, 
And  heard  the  wailing,  wintry  wind  sweep 

by  with  bitter  moan  ; 
And  to-night  beside  my  lonely  fire,  I  mutely 

wonder  why 
I,  who  once  wept  as   others  weep,  sit  here 

with  tearless  eye. 

To-day  this  letter  came  to  me.  At  first  I 
could  not  brook, 

Upon  the  unfamiliar  lines  by  strangers  pen 
ned,  to  look  ; 

The  dread  of  evil  tidings  shook  my  soul  with 
wild  alarm, — 

But  Harry's  in  the  hospital,  and  has  only 
lost  an  arm. 


He  is  the  last — the  last  of  six  brave  boys  as 

e'er  were  seen ! 
How  short,  "to   memory's   vision,  seem  the 

years  that  lie  between 
This  hour  and  those  most  blessed  ones,  when 

round  this  hearth's  bright  blaze 
They  charmed  their  mother's  heart  and  eye 

with  all  their  pretty  ways. 

My  William  was  the  eldest  son,  and  he  was 

first  to  go. 
It  did  not  at    all  surprise  me,  for  I  knew  it 

would  be  so, 
From  that  fearful  April  Sunday  when  the 

news  from  Sumter  came, 
And  his  lips  grew  white  as  ashes,  while  his 

eyes  were  all  aflame. 

He  sprang  to  join  the  three  months'  men.    I 

could  not  say  him  nay, 
Though  my  heart  stood  still  within  me  when 

I  saw  him  march  away  ; 
At  the  corner  of  the  street  he  smiled,  and 

waved  the  flag  he  bore  ; — 
I  never  saw  him  smile  again — he  was  slain 

at  Baltimore. 

They  sent  his  body  back  to  me,  and  as  we 
stood  around 

His  grave,  beside  his  father's,  in  yonder 
burial  ground, 

John  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm  and  whis 
pered,  "  Mother  dear, 

I  have  Willy's  work  and  mine  to  do.  I  can 
not  loiter  here." 

I  turned  and  looked  at   Paul,   for  he  and 

John  were  twins,  you  know, 
Born  on  a  happy  Christmas,  four-and-twenty 

years  ago ; 
I  looked  upon  them  both,  while  my  tears  fell 

down  like  rain, 
For  I  knew  what  one  had  spoken,  had  been 

spoken  by  the  twain. 

In  a  month  or  more  they  left  me, — the  merry, 
handsome  boys, 

Who  had  kept  the  old  house  ringing  with 
their  laughter,  fun,  and  noise. 

Then  James  came  homo  to  mind  the  farm  ; 
my  younger  sons  were  still 

Mere  children,  at  their  lessons  in  the  school- 
house  on  the  hill. 

0  days  of  weary  waiting !    0  days  of  doubt 

and  dread  ! 

1  feared  to  read  the  papers,  or  to  see  the  lists 

of  dead  ; 
But  when  full  many  a  battle  storm  had  left 

them  both  unharmed, 
I   taught    my    foolish   heart   to    think    the 

double  lives  were  charmed. 

Their  colonel  since  has  told  me  that  no 
braver  boys  than  they 

Ever  rallied  round  the  colors,  in  the  thick 
est  of  the  fray ; 

Upon  the  wall  behind  you  their  swords  are 
hanging  still,— 

For  John  was  killed  at  Fair  Oaks,  and  Paul 
at  Malveru  Hill. 


MRS.    JULIA    C.    R.    DORR. 


Then  came  the  dark  days,  darker  than  any 
known  before ; 

There  was  another  call  for  men, — "  three 
hundred  thousand  more  ;  " 

I  saw  the  cloud  on  Jamie's  brow  grow  deep 
er  day  by  dav. 

I  shrank  before  the  impending  blow,  and 
scarce  had  strength  to  pray. 

And  yet  at  last  I  bade  him  go,  while  on  my 

cheek  and  brow 
His  loving  tears  and  kisses  fell ;  I  feel  them 

even  now, 
Though  the  eyes  that  shed  the  tears,  and  the 

lips  so  warm  on  mine 
Are  hidden  under  southern  sands,  beneath  a 

blasted  pine ! 

He  did  not  die  'mid  battle-smoke,  but  for  a 
weary  year 

He  languished  in  close  prison  walls,  a  prey 
to  hope  and  fear  ; 

I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  think  of  the  fruit 
less  pangs  he  bore, 

My  brain  grows  wild  when  in  my  dreams  I 
count  his  sufferings  o'er. 

Only  two   left !    I   thought  the   worst   was 

surely  over  then  ; 
But  lo  !  at  once  my  school-boy  sons  sprang 

up  before  me — men  ! 
They  heard  their  brothers'  martyr  blood  call 

from  the  hallowed  ground  ; 
A  loud,  imperious  summons  that  all  other 

voices  drowned. 

1  did  not  say  a  single  word.     My  very  heart 

seemed  dead. 
What  could  I  do  but  take  the  cup,  and  bow 

my  weary  head 
To  drink  the  bitter  draught  again  ?     I  dared 

not  hold  them  buck  ;" 
I  would  as    soon   have  tried   to   check  the 

whirlwind  on  its  track. 

You  know  the  rest.  At  Cedar  Creek  my 
Frederick  bravely  fell ; 

They  say  his  young  arm  did  its  work  right 
nobly  and  right  well ; 

His  comrades  breathe  the  hero's  name  with 
mingled  love  and  pride  ; 

I  miss  the  gentle  blue-eyed  boy,  who  frol 
icked  at  my  side. 

For  me,  I  ne'er  shall  weep  again.     I  think 

my  heart  is  dead. 
I,  who  could  weep  for  lighter  griefs,  have 

now  no  tears  to  shed. 
But   read    this   letter,   neighbor.      There  is 

nothing  to  alarm. 
For  Harry's  in  the  hospital,  and  has  only 

lost  an  arm ! 


WAITING  FOR  LETTERS. 

COUNTING  the  minutes  all  the  day  long, 
Minutes  that   creep  with  the 'pace   of  a 
snail  ; 

Deaf  to  the  Bobolink's  jubilant  son«-, 
Deaf  to  the  Whippowil's  pitiful  wail ! 


Out  in  the  garden  red  roses  are  blowing, 
Down  by  the  hedgerow  are  violets  growing, 
Daisies    their   dainty    Avhite    blossoms    are 

showing, 

But  the  girl's  heart  bitter  anguish  is  know 
ing. 

Striving  to   work,    for  there's  work   to  be 

done, — 
Hands  must  be  busy,  though  hearts  bleed 

and  break, — 
Lifting  up  tear-laden  eyes  to  the  sun, 

Ah  !  the  long  day  will  not  speed  for  her 

sake  ; 
How  the  clock  ticks  on,  unresting,  unhast- 

i"g, 

Never  a  single  beat  staying  or  wasting  ; 
|  Steady  as  fate,  though   our   souls    may  be 

draining 
Cups  where  the  bitter  alone  is  remaining ! 

But  the  day  wanes,  as  the  longest  day  will  ; 
Slowly  the  golden  light   fades  from   the 

west, 

All  the  green  valleys  lie  breathless  and  still, 
Birds  cease  their  trilling  and  winds  are  at 

rest. 

Hark  !  A  low  sound  as  of  far-away  thunder  ! 
'Tis  the-  rush  of  the  train  as  it  sweeps  along 

under 
The    crest  of  the  mountains   that,    parting 

asunder, 
Seem  to  shrink  back  from  this  demon-eyed 

wonder ! 

Ah,  how  her  pulses  throb  !     Silent  and  pale 
Now    stands    she    waiting — the   mail    has 

come  in ! 
Waiting   for  letters.     But    watching    must 

must  fail, 
And  hope  dream  in  vain  of  the  bliss  that 

has  been  ; 
Down  where  the  southern  pines  sigh  in  the 

gloaming, 

Still  lie  her  lover's  feet,  weary  of  roaming ; 
Never  again  shall  the  heart  of  the  maiden 
Hail  his  white  missives  with  love  overladen  ! 


COMING  HOME. 

WHEN  the  winter  winds  were  loud, 
And  Earth  slept  in  snowy  shroud, 
Oft  our  darling  wrote  to  us,  — 
And  the  words  ran  ever  thus, — 
"  I  am  coining  in  the  spring  ! 
With  the  Mayflower's  blossoming, 
With  the  young  leaves  on  the  tree, 
O  my  dear  ones,  look  for  me  !  " 

And  she  came.     One  dreary  day, 
When  the  skies  were  dull  and  gray, 
Softly  through  the  open  door 
Our  beloved  came  once  more. 
Came  with  folded  hands  that  lay 
Very  quietly  alway, —     • 
Came  with  heavy-lidded  eyes, 
Lifted  not  in  glad  surprise. 

Not  a  single  word  she  spoke ; 
Laugh  nor  sigh  her  silence  broke 


MRS.    JULIA    C.    R.    DORR. 


427 


As  across  the  quiet  room, 
Darkening  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Oil  she  passed  in  stillest  guise, 
Calm  as  saint  in  Paradise, 
To  the  spot  where — woe  betide  ! — 
Four  years  since  she  stood  a  bride. 

Then,  you    think,   we    sprang  to   greet 

her, — 
Sprang  with  outstretched  hands  to  meet 

her, 

Clasped  in  our  arms  once  more, 
As  in  happy  days  of  yore  ; 
Poured  warm  kisses  on  her  cheek, 
Passive  lips,  and  forehead  meek, 
Till  the  barrier  melted  down 
That  had  thus  between  us  grown. 

Ah,  no  !— Darling,  did  you  know 
When  we  bent  above  you  so? 
When  our  tears  fell  down  like  rain, 
And  our  hearts  were  wild  with  pain  ? 
Did  you  pity  us  that  day, 
Even  as  holy  angels  may 
Pity  mortals  here  below, 
While  they  wonder  at  their  woe  ? 

Who  can  tell  us  ?     Word  nor  sign 
Came  from  those  pale  lips  of  thine ; 
Loving  heart  and  yearning  breast 
Lay  in  coldest,  calmest  rest. 
Is  thy  Heaven  so  very  fair 
That  thou  dost  forget  us  there? 
Speak,  beloved  !     Woe  is  me 
That  in  vain,  I  call  on  thee  ! 

Some  time — but  not  yet — I  know 
Time  will  check  the  bitter  flow 
Of  our  tears.     But  never  more 
Will  Earth  wear  the  smile  she  wore, 
Wear  the  golden  glow  that  flung 
Light  the  dreariest  paths  among, 
Ere  that  one  small  grave  was  made 
Underneath  the  elm-tree's  shade. 


HIDDEN  AWAY. 


HIDDEN  away  beneath  the  sod  ! 

0  my  darling,  can  this  be  true? 
In  the  pleasant  paths  your  feet  have  trod 

Must  I  look  in  vain,  henceforth,  for  you  ? 
Will  the  summers  come,  and  the  summers 

go? 

Will  Earth  rejoice  in  her  robes  of  green  ? 
Will  roses  blow,   while  thy  cheek's  young 

glow 

And  thine   eyes'    soft    smiling   ne'er    are 
seen  ? 

Hidden  away  three  months  ago  ! 

Only  three  months  !  but  how  long  it  seems 
Since  that  dreary  day  when  the  clouds  hung 
low. 


And  the    wild  rains  flooded   the  swollen 

streams  ! 
It  was  meet  that  the  sombre  skies  should 

weep, 
And  the  hills  that  you  loved  be  black  as 

night, 
When  the  dreamless  sleap  of  the  grave  so 

deep, 
Wrapped  you    away   from   our   yearning 

sight ! 

I  know  that  Earth  is  as  fair  to-day, 

As  fresh  and  fair  as  she  was  last  June, 
When  the  wind  in  the  maple-bows  alway 

Seemed  to  murmur  a  pleasant  tune  ; 
The  bending  skies  are  as  blue,  I  trow, 

The  young  leaves  dance   in   their  merry 

glee, 

The  stars  still  glow,  and  the  bright  streams 
flow, — 

What  have  we  lost  then  ?— Only  thee  ! 

Only  our  best  and  our  fairest,  laid 

Out  of  our  sight  beneath  the  sod  ! 
Only  a  voice  whose  music  made 

Shorter  the  weary  ways  we  trod  ! 
But    with   warmth   and   light   and   odorous 
bloom, 

The  beautiful  earth  is  glad  and  gay, 
Though  down  in  the  gloom  of  the  shadowy 
tomb 

Thy  form,  my  beloved,  lies  hidden  away  ! 


THEN  AND  NOW. 


WTIEX  last  these  trembling- blossoms  swung, 

Bright  pendants  on  the  bending  spray, 
Like  tiny  bells  by  fairies  rung 
In  tinkling  murmurs  all  the  day  ; 

We  bent  above  them,  thou  and  I, 
Entranced  the  lovely  things  to  view, 

That  shamed  the  ruby's  burning  dye, 
And  mocked  the  oriole's  brilliant  hue. 

How  fair  thou  wert  that  happy  morn  ! 

I  turned  to  gaze  upon  thy  face, 
Where  beauty,  of  the  spiiit  born, 

Looked  outward  in  serenest  g'race  ; 

Then  broke  a  lovely  crimson  spray, 
With  waxen  leaves  of  darkest  green, 

And  soon,  a  glowing  wreath,  it  lay 
Thy  folds  of  soft  brown  hair  between. 

And  then  I  kissed  thee.     Ah,  my  love  ! 

Would  that  our  past  might  live  again  ! 
For  thou  hast  flown  to  realms  above, 

While  I  am  standing  her.1,  as  then. 

But  now  from  these  same  f!o\veiv<  I  twine 
A  simple  wreath  to  deck  thy  grave, 

Woe  that  a  form  so  dear  as  thine 

Love  had  no  power  to  shield  or  save ! 


MES.    HAEEIET    BEECHEE    STOWE. 


THE  OLD  PSALM  TUNE. 

You  asked,  dear  friend,  the  other  day, 

Why  still  my  charmed  ear 
Rejoiceth  in  uncultured  tone 

That  old  psalm  tune  to  hear  ? 

I've  heard  full  oft,  in  foreign  lands, 

The  grand  orchestral  strain, 
Where  music's  ancient  masters  live, 

Revealed  on  earth  again, — 

Where  breathing,  solemn  instruments, 

In  swaying  clouds  of  sound, 
Bore  up  the  yearning,  tranced  soul, 

Like  silver  wings  around  ; — 

I  've  heard  in  old  St.  Peter's  dome, 
Where  clouds  of  incense  rise, 

Most  ravishing  the  choral  swell 
M  Mint  upwards  to  the  skies. 

And  well  I  feel  the  magic  power, 
When  skilled  and  cultured  art 

Its  cunning  webs  of  sweetness  weaves 
Around  the  captured  heart. 

But  yet,  dear  friend,  though  rudely  sung, 
That  old  psalm  tune  hath  still 

A  pulse  of  power  beyond  them  all 
My  inmost  soul  to* thrill. 

Those  halting  tones  that  sound  to  you, 

Are  not  the  tones  I  hear ; 
But  voices  of  the  loved  and  lost 

There  meet  my  longing  ear. 

I  hear  my  angel  mother's  voice, — 
Those  were  the  words  she  sung  ; 

I  hear  my  brother's  ringing  tones, 
As  once  on  earth  they  rung.; 

And  friends  that  walk  in  white  above 

Come  round  me  like  a  cloud, 
And  far  above  those  earthly  notes 

Their  singing  sounds  aloud. 

There  maybe  disrord.  as  you  say  ; 

Those  voices  poorly  ring  ; 
But  there's  no  discord  iu  the  strain 

Those  upper  spirits  sing. 

For  they  who  sing  are  of  the  blest, 

The  calm  and  glorified, 
Whose  hours  are  one  eternal  rest 

On  heaven's  sweet  floating  tide. 

Their  life  is  music  and  accord  ; 

Their  souls  and  hearts  keep  time 
In  one  sweet  concert  with  the  Lord, — 

One  concert  vast,  sublime. 


And  through  the  hymns  they  sang  on  earth 

Sometimes  a  sweetness  falls 
On,  those  they  loved  and  left  below, 

And  softly  homeward  calls, — 

Bells  from  our  own  dear  fatherland, 
Borne  trembling  o'er  the  sea, — 

The  narrow  sea  that  they  have  crossed, 
The  shores  where  we  shall  be. 

0  sing,  .sing  on,  beloved  souls  ! 

Sing  cares  and  griefs  to  rest ; 
Sing,  till  entranced  we  arise 

To  join  you  'mong  the  blest. 


THE  OTHER  WORLD. 

IT  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud, 

A  world  we  do  not  see  ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  "us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek  ; 

Amid  our  wrorldly  cares, 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred, 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 

The  silence,  awful,  sweet,  and  calm, 
They  have  no  power  to  break  ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet,  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem, 

They  lull  us  gently  to  our  rest, 
They  melt  into  our  dream. 

And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring 

'Tis  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovelv  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be  ; — 

To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 

And,  gently  drawn  in  loving  arms, 
To  swoon  to  that — from  this, — 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away, 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us  !  watch  us  still ; 

Press  nearer  to  our  side  ; 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 


MRS.    HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE. 


429 


Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream  ; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


THE  SECRET. 


"  Thou  shalt.  keep   the 
strife  of  tongues.'' 


in  the  secret   of  thy  presence  from  the 


winds    are    raging  o'er  the  upper 
wild   contend   with    angry 


WHEN 

ocean, 
And    billows 

roar, 

'Tis  said,  far  down  beneath  the  wild  com 
motion, 
That  peaceful  stillness  reigneth  evermore. 

Far,  far  beneath,  the  noise  of  tempest  dieth, 
And  silver  waves  chime  ever  peacefully  ; 

And  no   rude  storm,    how  fierce  soe'er  he 

flieth, 
Disturbs  the  sabbath  of  that  deeper  sea. 

So  to  the  soul  that  knows  thy  love,  0  Purest, 
There  is  a  temple  peaceful  evermore  ! 

And  all  the  babble  of  life's  angry  voices 
Die  in  hushed  stillness  at  its  sacred  door. 

Far,  far  away  the  noise  of  passion  dieth, 

And  loving  thoughts  rise  ever  peacefully  ; 
And    no  rude    storm,   how    fierce  soe'er  he 

flieth, 
'   Disturbs  that  deeper  rest,  0  Lord,  in  thee. 

0  rest  of  rests  !  0  peace  serene,  eternal ! 

Thou  ever  livest  and  thou  changest  never; 
And  in  the  secret  of  thy  presence  dwelleth 

Fullness  of  joy,  forever  and  forever. 


THINK  NOT  ALL  IS  OVER. 

THINK  not,  when  the  wailing  winds  of  au 
tumn 

Drive  the  shivering  leaflets  from  the  tree, 
Think  not  all  is  over  :  spring  returneth, 
Buds  and  leaves  and  blossoms  thou  shalt 
see. 

Think   not,   when  the   earth    lies  cold   and 
sealed, 

And  the  weary  birds  above  her  mourn, — 
Think  not  all  is  over:  God  still  liveth, 

Songs  and  sunshine  shall  again  return. 

Think  not,   when    thy  heart  is    waste    and 

dreary, 
When  thy  cherished  hopes  lie  chill  and 

sere, — 

Think  not  all  is  over  :  God  still  loveth, 
He  will  wipe  away  thy  every  tear. 

Weeping  for  a  night  alone  endureth, 
God  at  lust  shall  bring  a  morning  hour  ; 

In  the  frozen  buds  of  every  winter 
Sleep  the  blossoms  of  a  future  flower. 


THE  CROCUS. 


BENEATH  the  sunny  autumn  sky, 

With  gold  leaves  dropping  round, 
We  sought,  my  little  friend  and  I, 

The  consecrated  ground, 
Where,  calm,  beneath  the  holy  cross, 

O'ershadowed  by  sweet  skies, 
Sleeps  tranquilly  that  youthful  form, 

Those  blue  unclouded  eyes. 

Around  the  soft,  green  swelling  mound 

We  scooped  the  earth  away, 
And  buried  deep  the  crocus  bulbs 

Against  a  coming  day. 
"These  roots   are  dry,    and  brown,    and 
sere; 

Why  plant  them  here  ?  "  he  said, 
"  To  leave  them,  all  the  winter  long, 

So  desolate  and  dead." 

"  Dear  child,  within  each  sere  dead  form 

There  sleeps  a  living  flower, 
And  angel-like  it  shall  arise 

In  spring's  returning  hour." 
Ah,  deeper  down — cold,  dark,  and  chill — 

We  buried  our  heart's  flower, 
But  angel-like  shall  he  arise 

In  spring's  immortal  hour. 

In  blue  and  yellow  from  its  grave 

Springs  up  the  crocus  fair, 
And  God  shall  raise  those  bright  blue  eyes 

Those  sunny  waves  of  hair. 
Not  for  a  fading  summer's  morn, 

Not  for  a  fleeting  hour, 
But  for  an  endless  age  of  bliss, 

Shall  rise  our  heart's  dear  flower. 


"  ONLY  A  YEAR.1' 

ONE  year  ago, — a  ringing  voice, 

A  clear  blue  eye, 
And  clustering  curls  of  sunny  hair, 

Too  fair  to  die. 

Only  a  year, — no  voice,  no  smile, 

No  glance  of  eye, 
No  clustering  curls  of  golden  hair, 

Fair  but  to  die  ! 

One  year  ago — what  loves,  what  schemes 

Far  into  life  ! 
What  joyous  hopes,  what  high  resolves, 

What  generous  strife  ! 

The  silent  picture  on  the  wall, 

The  burial  stone, 
Of  all  that  beauty,  life,  and  joy 

Remain  alone  ! 

One  year, — one  year, — one  little  year, 

And  so  much  gone  ! 
And  yet  the  even  flow  of  life 

Moves  calmly  on. 

The  grave  grows  green,  the  flowers  bloom 
fair, 

Above  that  head  ; 
No  sorrowing  tint  of  leaf  or  spray 

Says  he  is  dead. 


430 


MRS.    HARRIET    BEECIIER    STOWE. 


No  pause  or  hush  of  merry  birds, 

That  sing1  above, 
Tells  us  how  coldly  sleeps  below 

The  form  we  love. 

Where  hast  thou  been  this  year,  beloved? 

What  hast  thou  seen  ? 
What  visions  fair,  what  glorious  life, 

Where  thou  hast  been  '>. 

The  veil  !  the  veil !  so  thin,  so  strong ! 

Twixt  us  and  thee  ; 
The  mystic  veil  !    when  shall  it  fall, 

That  we  may  see  ? 

Not  dead,  not  sleeping,  not  even  gone, 

But  present  still, 
And  waiting  for  the  coming  hour 

Of  God's  sweet  will. 

Lord  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Our  Saviour  dear ! 
We  lay  in  silence  at  thy  feet 

This  sad,  sad  vear! 


MIDNIGHT. 


"  Tie  hath  made  me  to  dwell  in  dnrkne 
Ion*  (lead." 


as  those  that  have  been 


ALL  dark  ! — no  light,  no  ray  ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  all  gone  ! 
Dimness  of  anguish  !— utter  void  ! — 
Crushed,  and  alone  ! 

One  waste  of  weary  pain, 
One  dull,  unmeaning  ache, 
A  heart  too  weary,  even  to  throb, 
Too  bruised  too  break. 

No  longer  anxious  thoughts, 
No  longer  hopes  and  fears, 
No  strife,  no  effort,  no  desire, 
No  tears  ? 

Daylight  and  leaves  and  floAvers, 
Summer  and  song  of  bird  ! — 
All  vanished  ! — dreams  forever  gone, 
Unseen,  unheard  ! 

Love,  beauty,  youth, — all  gone  ! 

The  high,  heroic  vow, 

The  buoyant  hope,  the  fond  desire, — 

All  ashes  now  ! 

The  wo  I'd  s  they  speak  to  me 
Far  oil'  and  distant  seem, 
As  voices  we  have  known  and  loved 
Speak  in  a  dream. 

They  bid  me  1o  submit ; 
I  do — 1  cannot  strive  ; 
1  do  not  question, — I  endure, 
Kudu  re  and  live. 

1  do  not  struggle  more, 
Nor  pray,  for  prayer  is  vain  ; 
I  but  lie  still  the  weary  hour, 
And  bear  my  pain. 

A  guiding  (iod,  a  Friend, 
A   Father's  gracious  cheer, 
Once  seemed  my  own  ;  but  now  even  faith 
Lies  buried  here. 


This  darkened,  deathly  life 
Is  all  remains  of  me, 
And  but  one  conscious  wish, 
To  cease  to  be  1 


SECOND  HOUR. 


"They   laid   hold  upon   one  Simon  a  Cyrenian,  and  on  him  they 
laid  the  crots,  that  he  ruiuht  bear  it  alter  Jesus. ' 


ALONG  the  dusty  thoroughfare  of  life, 
Upon  his  daily  errands  walking  free, 

Came  a  brave,    honest   man,  untouched  by 

pain, 
Unchilled  by  sight  or  thought  of  misery. 

But  lo  !  a  crowd  : — he  stops, — with  curious 

eye 
A   fainting   form  all  pressed  to  earth  he 

sees  ; 

The  hard,  rough  burden  of  the  bitter  cross 
Hath  bowed  the  drooping  head  and  feeble 
knees. 

Ho  !  lay  the  cross  upon  yon  stranger  there, 
For  he  hath  breadth  of  chest  and  strength 

of  limb. 

Straight  it  is  done ;  and  heavy  laden  thus, 
With  Jesus'   cross,  he  turns  and  follows 
him. 

Unmurmuring,  patient,  cheerful,  pitiful, 
Prompt  with  the  holy  sufferer  to  endure, 

Forsaking  all  to  follow  the  dear  Lord, — 
Thus    did   he  make   his    glorious    calling- 
sure. 

O  soul,  whoe'er  thou  art,  walking  life's  way, 
As  yet  from  touch  of  deadly  sorrow  free, 

Learn  from  this  story  to  forecast  the  day 
When  Jesus  and  his  cross  shall  come  to 
thee. 

0,  in  that  fearful,  that  decisive  hour, 

Rebel  not,  shrink  not,  seek  not  thence  to 
nee, 

But,  humbly  bending,  take  thy  heavy  load, 
And  bear  it  after  Jesus  patiently. 

His  cross  is  thine.     If  thou  and  he  be  one, 
Some  portion    of   his  J>ain   must  still  be 

thine  ; 
Thus  only  mayst    thou    share   his   glorious 

crown, 
And  reign  with  him  in  majesty  divine 

Master  in  sorrow!   I  accept  my  share 
In  the  great  anguish  of  life's  mystery. 

No  more,  alone,  I  sink  beneath  my  load, 
But  bear  mv  cross,  0  Jesus,  after  thee. 


A  DAY  IN  THE  F'AMFILI  DORIA. 


THOUGH  the  hills  are  cold  and  snowy, 
And  the  wind  drives  chill  to-day, 

My  heart  goes  back  to  a  spring-time, 
Far,  far  in  the  past  away. 

And  I  see  a  quaint  old  city, 

Weary  and  worn  and  brown, 
Where  the  spring  and  the  birds  are  so  early 

And  the  sun  in  such  light  goes  down. 


MRS.    HARRIET   BEECHER    STOWE. 


431 


I  remember  that  old-time  villa, 
Where  our  afternoons  went  by, 

Whevo  the  suns  of  March  Hushed  warmly, 
And  spring  was  in  earth  and  sky. 

Out  of  the  mouldering  city, 

Mouldering,  old,  and  gray, 
We  sped,  with  a  lightsome  heart-thrill, 

For  a  sunny,  gladsome  day, — 

For  a  revel  of  fresh  spring  verdure, 
For  a  race  'mid  springing  flowers, 

For  a  vision  of  plashing  fountains, 
Of  birds  and  blossoming  bowers. 

There  were  violet  banks  in  the  shadows, 

Violets  white  and  blue  ; 
And  a  world  of  bright  anemones, 

That  over  the  terrace  grew, — 

Blue  and  orange  and  purple, 

Rosy  and  yellow  and  white, 
Rising  in  rainbow  bubbles, 

Streaking  the  lawns  with  light. 

And  down  from  the  old  stone  pine-trees, 

Those  far  off  islands  of  air, 
The  birds  are  flinging  the  tidings 

Of  a  joyful  revel  up  there. 

And  now  for  the  grand  old  fountains, 

Tossing  their  silvery  spray, 
Those  fountains  so  quaint  and  so  many, 

That  are  leaping  and  singing  all  day. 

Those  fountains  of  strange  weird  sculpture, 
With  lichens  and  moss  o'ergrown, 

Are  they  marble  greening  in  moss-wreaths  ? 
Or  moss-wreaths  whitening  to  stone  ? 

Down  many  a  wild,  dim  pathway 
We  ramble  from  morning  till  noon ; 

We  linger,  unheeding  the  hours, 
Till  evening  comes  all  too  soon. 

And  from  out  the  ilex  alleys, 

Where  lengthening  shadows  play, 

We  look  on  the  dreamy  Campagna, 
All  glowing  with  setting  day, — 

All  melting  in  bands  of  purple, 
In  swathings  and  foldings  of  gold, 

In  ribands  of  azure  and  iilac, 

Like  a  princely  banner  unrolled. 

And  the  smoke  of  each  distant  cottage, 
And  the  flash  of  each  villa  white, 

Shines  out  with  an  opal  glimmer, 
Like  gems  in  a  casket  of  light. 

And  the  dome  of  old  St.  Peter's 

With  a  strange  transl licence  glows, 

Like  a  mighty  bubble  of  amethyst 
Floating  in  waves  of  rose. 

In  a  trance  of  dreamy  vagueness 
We,  gazing  and  yearning,  behold 

That  city  beheld  by  the  prophet, 

Whose  walls  were  transparent  gold. 

And,  dropping  all  solemn  and  slowly, 

To  hallow  the  softening  spell, 
There  falls  on  the  dying  twilight 

The  Ave  Maria  bell. 


With  a  mournful  motherly  softness, 

With  a  weird  and  weary  care, 
That  strange  and  ancient  city 

Seems  calling  the  nations  to  prayer. 
And  the  words  that  of  old  the  angel 

To  the  mother  of  Jesus  brought, 
Ri  ?e  ]  _k  -  a  new  ,-vangel, 

To  hollow  the  trance  of  our  thought. 

With  the  smoke  of  the  evening  incense 
Our  thoughts  are  ascending  then 

To  Mary,  the  mother  of  Jesus, 
To  Jesus,  the  Master  of  men. 

0  city  of  prophets  and  martyrs, 
O  shrines  of  the  sainted  dead, 

When,  when  shall  the  living  day-spring 
Once  more  on  your  towers  be  spread  ? 

When  He  who  is  meek  and  lowly 
Shall  rule  in  those  lordly  halls, 

And  shall  stand  and  feed  as  a  shepherd 
The  flock  which  his  mercy  calls, — 

0,  then  to  those  noble  churches, 
To  picture,  and  statue,  and  gem, 

To  the  pageant  of  solemn  worship, 
Shall  the  meaning  come  back  again. 

And  this  strange  and  ancient  city, 
In  that  reign  of  His  truth  and  love, 

Shall  be  what  it  seems  in  the  twilight/ 
The  type  of  that  City  above. 

THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  VATICAN. 


SWEET  fountains,  plashing  with  a  dreamy 

fall. 
And  mosses  green,  and  tremulous   veils  of 

fern, 

And  banks  of  blowing  cyclamen,  and  stars, 
Blue  as  the  skies,  of  myrtle  blossoming, 
The  twilight  shade  of  ilex  overhead 
O'erbubbling  with  sweet  song  of  nightingale, 
With  walks  of  strange,  weird  stillness,  lead 
ing  on 
'Mid   sculptured   fragments    half  to   green 

moss  gone, 

Or  breaking  forth  amid  the  violet  leaves 
With    some    white   gleam  of  an  old   world 

g'one  by. 

Ah  !  strange,  sweet  quiet  !  wilderness  of  calm, 
Gardens  of  dreamy  rest,  I  long  to  lay 
Beneath  your  shade   the  last  long  sigh,  and 

say, 
Here  is  my  home,  my  Lord,   thy  home   and 

mine ; 
And  I,  having  searched  the  world  with  many 

a  tear, 
At  last  have  found  thee  and  will  stray  no 

more. 

But  vainly  here  I  seek  the  Gardener 
That. Mary  sa\v.     These  lovely  halls  beyond, 
That  airy,  sky-like  dome,  that  lofty  fane, 
Is  as  a  palace  whence  the  king  is  gone 
And  taken  all  the  sweetness  with  himself. 
Turn  again,  Jesus,  and  possess  thine  o\vn  I 
Come  to  thy  temple  once  more  as  of  old  ! 
Drive  forth  the  money-changers,  let  it  be 
A  house  of  prayer  for  nations.     Even  so, 
Amen  !    Ameii ! 


MRS.    MARY   E.    BRADLEY. 


HEARTSEASE. 


OF  all  the  bonny  buds  that  blow 

In  bright  or  cloudy  weather, 
Of  all  the  flowers  that  come  and  go 

The  whole  twelve  moons  together, 
This  little  purple  pansy  brings 
Thoughts  of  the  sweetest,  saddest  things. 

I  had  a  little  lover  once, 

Who  used  to  give  me  posies  : 
His  eyes  were  blue  as  hyacinths, 

His  lips  were  red  as  roses, 
And  everybody  loved  to  praise 
His  pretty  looks  and  winsome  ways. 

The  girls  that  went  to  school  with  me 

Made  little  jealous  speeches, 
Because  he  brought  me  royally 

His  biggest  plums  and  peaches, 
And  always  at  the  door  would  wait 
To  carry  home  my  books  and  slate. 

"They  couldn't  see"  — with  pout  and  fling- 

"  The  mighty  fascination 
About  that  little  snub-nosed  thing 

To  win  such  admiration  ; 
As  if  there  wern't  a  dozen  girls 
With  nicer  eyes  and  longer  curls  !  " 

And  this  I  knew  as  well  as  they, 

And  never  could  see  clearly 
Why  more  than  Marion  or  May 

I  should  be  loved  so  dearly. 
So  once  I  asked  him,  why  was  this? 
He  only  answered  with  a  kiss. 

Until  I  teased  him — "  Tell  me  why — 

I  want  to  know  the  reason  ;" 
When  from  the  garden-bed  close  by 

(The  panties  were  in  season) 
He  plucked  and  gave  a  flower  to  me, 
Wiih   sweet  and  Dimple  gravity. 

"  The  garden  is  in  bloom,"  he  said, 
"  With  lilies  pule  and  slender, 

With  roses  and  verbenas  red, 
And  fuchsias'  purple  splendor; 

But  over  and  above  the  rest, 

This  little  heartsease  suits  me  best." 

"  Am  I  your  little  heartsease,  then  ?  " 
I  asked  with  blushing  pleasure  : 

He  answnvd  yes  !   and  yes  again — 

Heartsease,  and  dearest  treasure; 
That  the  round  world  and  all  the  sea 
Held  nothing  half  so  sweet  as  me  1 

I  listened  with  a  proud  delight 
^Too  rare  for  words  to  capture, 
iSor  ever  dreamed  what  sudden  blight 
Would  come  to  chill  my  rapture. 


Could  I  foresee  the  tender  bloom 
Of  pansies  round  a  little  tomb  ? 

Life  holds  some  stern  experience, 

As  most  of  us  discover, 
And  I've  had  other  losses  since 

I  lost  my  little  lover  ; 
But  still  this  purple  pansy  brings 
Thoughts  of  the  saddest,  sweetest  things. 


MIGXOXNETTE. 


"  Your  qualities  surpass  your  charms," — Language  of  Floicert, 

I  PASSED  before  her  garden  gate  : 

She  stood  among  her  roses, 
And  stooped  a  little  from  the  state 

In  which  her  pride  reposes, 
To  make  her  flowers  a  graceful  plea 
For  luring  and  delaying  me. 

"  When  summer  blossoms  fade  so  soon," 
She  said  with  winning  sweetness, 

"  Who  does  not  wear  the  badge  of  June 
Lacks  something  of  completeness. 

My  garden  welcomes  you  to-day, 

Come  in  and  gather,  while  you  may." 

I  entered  in  :  she  led  me  through, 

A  maze  of  leafy  arches, 
Where  velvet-purple  pansies  grew 

Beneath  the  sighing  larches, — 
A  shadowy,  still,  and  cool  retreat 
That  gave  excuse  for  lingering  feet. 

She  paused,  pulled  down  a  trailing  vine, 
And  twisted  round  her  finger 

Its  starry  sprays  of  jessamine, 
As  one  who  seeks  to  linger. 

But  I  smiled  lightly  in  her  face, 

And  passed  on  to  the  open  space 

— Passed  many  a  flower-bed  fitly  set 

In  trim  and  blooming  order, 
And  plucked  at  last  some  mignonnette 

That  strayed  along  the  border ; 
A  simple  thing  that  had  no  bloom, 
And  but  a  faint  and  far  perfume. 

She  wondered  why  I  would  not  choose 

That  dreamy  amaryllis, — 
"  And  could  I  really,  then,  refuse 

Those  heavenly  white  lilies  ! 
And  leave  ungathered  on  the  slope 
This  passion-breathing  heliotrope  ?  " 

She  did  not  know — what  need  to  tell 
So  fair  and  fine  a  creature  ? — 

That  there  was  one  who  loved  me  well 
Of  widely  different  nature; 


MRS.    MARY     E.    BRADLEY. 


433 


A  little  maid  whose  tender  youth, 
And  innocence,  and  simple  truth, 

Had  won  my  heart  with  qualities 
That  far  surpassed  her  beauty, 

And  held  me  with  unconscious  ease 
Enthralled  of  love  and  duty  ; 

Whose  modest  graces  all  were  met 

And  symboled  in  my  mignonnette. 

I  passed  outside  her  garden-gate, 
And  left  her  proudly  smiling  : 
Her  roses  bloomed  too  late,  too  late, 

She  saw,  for  my  beguiling. 
I  wore  instead — and  wear  it  yet— 
The  single  spray  of  mignonnette. 

Its  fragrance  greets  me  unaware, 

A  vision  clear  recalling 
Of  shy,  sweet  eyes,  and  drooping  hair 

In  girlish  tresses  falling, 
And  little  hands  so  white  and  fine 
That  timidly  creep  into  mine  ; 

^.s  she — all  ignorant  of  the  arts 
That  wiser  maids  are  plying — 

Has  crept  into  my  heart  of  hearts 
Past  doubting  or  denying  : 

Therein,  while  suns  shall  rise  and  set, 

To  bloom  unchanged,  my  mignonnette  ! 


WINTER  GREEN. 


''  There  are  more  tilings  to  be  seen 

In  this  sprig  of  winter-^reen 

Trian  its  leaves,  and   (jerries  red, 

And  tiir  dew  on  which  thry  led. 

1  will  Ml  you  what  s.'ined.y, 

Wlien  i lie  children  are  at  ],l.iy, 

Out  01  hearing,  mil  "1  sight: 

Uut  n, .  wrdof  it  lo-niuhi, 

For  'tis  Christmas  Kve,  and  we 

Must  go  dress  the  Christmas  Tree."— ANON. 


THE  frost  has  melted  from  the  pane, 

For  rime  is  not  in  reason 
When  flowers  begin  to  bloom  again, 
And  the  clear  shining  after  rain 

Foretells  an  April  season. 

I  know  how  white  the  snow-drifts  lie 

Against  the  hawthorn  hedges  ; 
And  do  ii')t  venture  to  deny 
Tuat  icicles  hang  high  a.nd  dry 

Along  the  window-ledges. 

But  some  have  found  the  flower  of  life 

A  delicate  May-comer  ; 
Some  find  the  winter's  storm  and  strife 
Witn  more  of  blooming  sweetness  rife 

Than  any  hour  of  summer. 

And  let  me  tell  you  why  to-day 
The  frost  leaves  no  impression  ; 

And  why  when  all  the  world  is  gray 

I  hold,  so  confidently  gay, 
The  sunshine  in  possession. 

An  hour  ago  this  very  room, 

That  now  you  find  so  cheery, 
Was  dull  and  darksome  as  a  tomb 
Whereon  the  flowers  have  ceased  to  bloom, 

And  I  was  just  as  dreary. 


But  while,  with  secret  sense  of  shame, 

Yet  secret  sense  of  yearning, 
I  breathed  a  rarely-uttered  name,— 
Behold  !  a  letter  to  me  came 

With  news  of  his  returning  ! 

Then  all  the  wintry  world  grew  bright 
With  summer  warmth  and  shining, 

And  every  cloud  that  day  or  night 

Had  darkened  over  my  delight, 
Revealed  a  silver  lining. . 

For  long  ago,  0  long  ago, 

No  need  now  to  remember, 
If  April  violets  were  in  blow, 
Or  if  the  fields  were  wrapt  in  snow 

Of  dreary  cold  December, — 

My  love  was  proud,  my  love  and  I 
Were  proud,  and  tender-hearted  ; 

We  passed  each  other  coldly  by, 

Nor  ever  told  the  reason  why 
So  foolishly  we  parted. 

We  went  our  weary  ways  alone, 

He  sailed  the  wide  seas  over ; 
I  kept  my  secret  for  my  own, 
And  saw  the  pinky  blossoms  grown 

Ten  times  upon  the  clover. 

Ten  times  I  heard  the  honey-bees 

Among  them  sweetly  humming ; 
But  never  summer  bee  nor  breeze 
Brought  me  such  welcome  words  as  these, — 
"  Your  love  is  coming,  coming  !" 

Upon  the  bitter  biting  blast 

Of  January  flying, 
The  happy  message  came  at  last  ; 
And  so,  you  see,  my  winter's  past, 

For  all  the  snow's  denying. 

You  need  not  smile  because  the  snow 

Upon  my  hair  is  sprinkled  ; 
Hearts  may  keep  spring-time  still,  although 
The  brow  above,  like  mine,  you  know, 

Is  just  a  little  wrinkled. 

I  would  not  change  with  you,  my  sweet, 

For  all  your  April  beauty ; 
Nor  give,  for  all  the  hearts  that  meet 
To  oiler  at  your  pretty  feet 

Their  undivided  duty, 

The  one  that  unforgetting  went 

For  ten  long  years  together, — 
The  one  whose  crowning  love  has  lent 
"  The  winter  of  my  discontent"    • 

Its  flush  of  summer  weather. 


BESIDE  THE  SEA. 


TO   E.    D.    B.    3. 

THE  sea  rolls  up  against  the  beach, 

The  old  house  fronts  the  sea  ; 
Only  the  high  road's  level  reach 

Betwixt  its  waves  and  me. 
Across  the  window-ledge  I  lean 

And  watch  the  waters  play, 
As  you  have  watched  their  shade  and  sheen 

On  many  an  April  day, 


434 


MRS.    MARY    E.    BRADLEY. 


lake  this,  which  brightens  to  its  close 

Till  sky  and  sea  below 
With  sunset  tints  of  gold  and  rose 

Lie  Hushed  in  equal  glow  ; 
And  far  across  the  shining  bay 
A  rainbow  faintly  fades  away. 

How  like  a  dream  it  seems  to  me, 

A  tender  dream  come  true, 
To  watch,  in  silent  sympathy, 

This  sunlit  sea  with  you  ! 
I  turn  to  look  upon  your  face  ; 

It  is  not  one,  indeed — 
With  all  the  frankness  of  your  race — • 

That  he  who  runs  may  read  : 
But  like  a  floAver  that  drops  apart 

When  summer  sunbeams  shine, 
The  closest  leaflets  of  your  heart 

Have  opened  unto  mine, 
With  all  your  yearning  thoughts  that  fly 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sky. 

I  would  that  like  the  sunbeams,  dear, 

I  held  the  happy  power 
To  shed  a  radiant  atmosphere 

About  the  drooling  flower — 
That  as  the  cloud  of  April  flies 

Before  their  bright  control, 
So  might  the  shadow  from  your  eyes, 

Its  substance  from  your  soul  ! 
Vain  wishes  —  unto  us  who  know 

How  black  such  shadows  fall — • 
The  face  we  love  best  hid  below 

A  coffin-lid  and  pall- 
Love  has  not  any  balm  to  cure 
These  griefs  that  silently  endure. 

And  I  who  love  you,  friend  of  years, 

Can  give  you  only  this — 
The  mute  companionship  of  tears, 

The  language  of  a  kiss  ; 
Or  quiet  clasping  of  the  hand 

When  memories  overflow, 
And  shines  upon  the  sea  and  land 

The  light  of  long  ago. 
Not  much  for  giving,  it  is  true, 

To  one  in  merrier  mood, 
But  something,  after  all,  to  you 

So  1<>  be  understood  ; 
And  in  this  old  house  by  the  sea, 
I  comprehend  you  utterly. 

Its  ancient  walls  are  eloquent 

Of  days  that  are  no  more  ; 
Fail-  days,  sen-lie  with  sweet  content, 

Dark  days,  that  darkly  bore 
Tin-  burden  of  a  lierce  despair, 

A  sharp,  unequal  strife— 
Wherein  who  struggles  he  shall  wear 

The  bitter  scars  for  life. 
You  wear  them — ah  !  the  cruel  need, 

God  knows  it  !      Let  it  be. 
Some  day  the  riddle  we  shall  read 

And  all  the  reason  see. 
The  shadows  darken  on  the  bay  ; 
The  color  fades  ;  you  turn  away. 


A  RHYME  OF  THE  EAIN. 


OXCE  I  sang  in  April  weather 

(Oh,  I  sang  it  all  in  vain  !) 
'Tome  and  welcome,  April  shower  1 

Tap  your  message  on  the  pane. 

April  rain  ! 
I  can  guess  the  merry  meaning 

Of  your  musical  refrain. 

"  For  he  loves  me,  loves  me  truly  ! 

Summer  shower  and  winter  snow 
Bring  the  happy  message  to  me, 

And  the  wildest  winds  that  blow. 

Oh,  I  know 
What  the  birds  mean  by  their  singing, 

What  the  brook  says,  laughing  low! 

"  He  is  coming!     April  shower, 
With  the  bonny  buds  of  May, 

Bid  the  lilacs  and  the  lilies 
Don  their  loveliest  array. 
Dance  away  ! 

Let  your  kisses  speed  their  blooming 
For  my  merry  marriage-day  !  " 

So  I  sang  in  April  weather, 

And  my  voice  wras  wild  with  glee 

As  the  streamlet's,  rippling  downward 
To  its  marriage  with  the  sea. 
But,  ah  me  ! 

Never  while  the  tides  flow  onward 
Shall  my  merry  marriage  be. 

For  he  did  not  love  me  truly  : 
'Tis  the  way  of  honey  bees, 

Having  sucked  the  flower's  sweetness 
Just  to  wander  as  they  plea'se  : 
Will  the  breeze 

Hold  the  flower's  incompleteness 
Limitation  unto  these  ? 

Comes  again  the  April  weather, 
And  the  sudden  cloud  hangs  low, 

And  the  rain-drops  dance  together 
With  a  measured  fall  and  flow. 
But,  I  know, 

They  will  bring  the  message  never 
That  they  brought  me  long  ago. 


IX  THE  NIGHT. 


THE  night  wind  rustles  in  the  trees: 
In  my  dim  chamber,  ill  at  ease, 
I  lie  with  feverish  pain  opprest, 
And  toss  the  covers  from  my  breast, 
And  turn  my  face  to  meet  the  breeze. 

Outside,  upon  the  lamp-lit  street 
The  ringing  tramp  of  endless  feet, 
And  rush  of  wheels,  and  jangling  bells 
Blend  With  a  voice  that  sinks  and  swells 
In  a  rude  ballad,  shrilly  sweet. 

I  listen  till  the  wandering  song 
Dies  in  the  undistinguished  throng 
Of  jarring  noises.     Sleep  has  fled, 
And  sad-eyed  Thought  has  come  instead 
To  drag  the  weary  hours  along. 


MRS.    MARY    E.    BRADLEY. 


435 


I  yield  myself  to  her  control, 
And  ponder,  sick  and  sad  of  soul, 
How  many  sufferers  there  be 
That  lie  in  sleepless  pain,  like  me, 
Nor  any  power  can  make  them  whole. 

No  right  have  I,  the  truth  being  shown, 
Or  such  as  I,  to  make  a  moan. 
Sin  brings  perforce  its  punishment ; 
Who  breaks  a  law  must  be  content 
To  make  the  penalty  his  own. 

And  I  have  sinned  enough,  my  God, 
To  hold  me  still  beneath  Thy  rod, 
And  own  the  chastening  is  meet ; 
Knowing  how  wilfully  my  feet 
By  and  forbidden  paths  have  trod. 

Bat  under  this  wide,  starlit  sky 
How  many  sinless  creatures  lie 
Tortured  and  bound  with  nameless  pain, 
And  stretch  imploring  hands  in  vain, 
Nor  ever  know  the  reason  why  ! 

The  little  children,  innocent 

Alike  of  good  or  ill  intent, 

Whose  utter  helplessness  should  be 

As  utter  an  immunity — 

What  is  their  sin  for  punishment  ? 

Why  should  their  span  of  life,  so  brief, 
Be  ignorantly  full  of   grief  ? 
And  the  pathetic  look  that  lies 
Mutely  appealing  in  their  eyes 
Be  unavailing  for  relief  ? 

It  wrings  my  heart  with  sudden  woe 
To  know  — as  I  too  surely  know — 
How  many  feverish  hands  will  burn, 
What  little  heads  shall  toss  and  turn 
This  night,  in  anguish,  to  and  fro. 

And  how  the  mother-hearts  must  ache 

With  equal  anguish  for  their  sake, 

The  while  with  passionate  tears  they  plead 

Before  a  Power  that  takes  no  heed 

To  hands  that  burn  or  hearts  that  break  ! 

My  soul  by  reason  of  these  things 
Is  tortured  l>y  vain  questionings. 
Is  God  a  God  of  Love  in  truth  ; 
And  can  He  coldly,  with  no  ruth, 
Observe  such  needless  sufferings? 

I  am  His  creature,  verily, 
Mad:-  in  His  image.     Can  it  be 
That  the  men;  creature  of  His  breath 
Who  holds  in  balance  life  and  death 
Is  made  more  merciful  than  He  ? 

/would  account  it  pure  delight 
To  stretch  above  the  world  this  night 
Vast  wings  of  healing,  and  to  shed 
Upon  each  aching  heart  and  head 
A  blessed  balm,  if  so  I  might. 

^  s  Christ  the  sick  and  sore  went  by, 
And  made  them  whole,  so  too  would  I. 
No  little  child  should  wake  to  weep  ; 
But,  wrapt  around  with  tender  sleep, 
The  mother  and  the  babe  should  lie. 


How  the  mere  fancy  that  my  will 
Could  such  a  boundless  good  fulfil 
Deadens  the  sense*  of  present  pain, 
Sends  the  quick  blood  through  every  vein, 
And  makes  my  languid  pulses  thrill ! 

Yet  God  on  His  eternal  throne 

Hears  all  unmoved  this  endless  moan, 

That  at  the  echo  of  His  word 

To  sweet  rejoicing  could  be  stirred 

In  a  far-reaching  monotone. 

Thou  art  the  potter,  we  the  clay, 
My  God !  and  yet  both  night  and  day 
I  wonder  why  Thy  ways  should  be 
So  past  the  finding  out ;  for  me, 
I  wonder  when  I  ought  to  pray. 

For  hearts  that  simply  pray  and  trust, 
They  know  Thee  good,  and  great,  and  just, 
And  with  a  love  that  casts  out  fear 
They  wait  to  read  Thy  meaning  clear — 
Even  till  dust  returns  to  dust. 

Let  mine  be  like  them  in  Thy  sight, 
O  God  of  mercy,  God  of  might  ! 
That  I  may  trust  Thee  for  Thy  grace, 
And  find  Thee  in  the  darkest  place 
By  an  unerring  inward  light. 

Dispel  the  haunting  doubt  and  dread — 
Twin  spectres — that  beset  my  bed  ; 
Nor  mine  alone.     Thou  knowest,  Lord, 
They  keep  their  evil  watch  and  ward 
This  night  by  many  a  fevered  head. 

Through  the  long  hours,  with  pain  possessed, 

We  lie  and  think,  we  cannot  rest, 

And  on  our  apprehension  grows 

The  sum  of  individual  woes — 

A  nightmare  weight  upon  the  breast. 

But  Thou  canst  lift  the  weary  weight, 
And  Love  and  Faith  can  penetrate 
With  sweetest  sense  of  certainty 
The  desolating  doubts  of  Thee 
That  Unbelief  and  Fear  create. 

Therefore,  let  Faith  and  Love  endure, 
Our  Father!  till  our  hearts  are  sure 
The  bitterest. blossom  that  can  blow 
Its  root  of  sweetness  hath  below, 
And  every  ill  shall  find  its  cure. 


SONG. 


COOL  wind,  sweet  wind,  blowing  oft  the  sea, 
Have  you  brought  from  Adelaide  the  kiss 

she  sent  to  me  ? 
Adelaide    '»   u  little   maid,   fair  as  summer 

skies, 
All  the  dew  and  all  the  blue  of  April  in  her 

eyes. 
Red  her  lips  like  strawberries,  or  cherries 

cleft  in  two, 
But  never  fruit  from  any  root  such  heavenly 

sweetness  drew  ; 
I  who  stole  a  kiss  from  them,  and  not  so 

long  ago — 
Cool  wind,  sweet  wind,  ought  n't  I  to  know  ? 


436 


MRS.    MARY    E.    BRADLEY. 


Cool  wind,  sweet  wind,  flutter  faraway  ! 

1  would  rather  see  the  gale  that  sweeps 
across  the  bay ; 

Rather  greet  snow  and  sleet,  and  sullen  win 
ter  rain, 

Than  all  the  bloom  and  perfume  that  follow 
in  your  train. 

For  when  the  winds  of  winter  blow  over 
land  and  sea, 

Adelaide,  the  little  maid,  she  will  marry  me  ; 

Merrily  the  marriage  bells  will  sound  across 
the  bay — 

Cool  wind,  sweet  wind,  flutter  far  away  ! 


THE  FOUK-LEAYED  CLOVER. 

IF  it  be  true,  or  no, 

That  luck's  in  a  four-leaved  clover — 
As  the  old  stories  go — 

Now  I  mean  to  discover. 

Ankle-deep  in  the  dew 

(With  hopes  too  dear  to  be  spoken), 
I  searched  the  grass-plot  through 

Till  I  found  the  fairy  token. 

Shyly  hiding  from  sight 
The  nodding  grasses  under, 

I  brought  it  forth  to  the  light — 
Here  is  my  four-leaved  wonder  ! 

A  small  affair,  if  you  scan 
Its  outward  presence  merely, 

To  wake  in  the  heart  of  a  man 
The  hope  he  holds  most  dearly. 

But  love  has  its  mystic  lore — 
You  may  call  it  superstition  ! 

And  Hope  is  the  open  door 

Sometimes  to  a  sweet  fruition. 

One  thing  this  night  shall  show 

Or  I  am  no  true  lover, — 
If  it  be  faLse  or  no, 

That  luck's  in  a  four-leaved  clover  ! 


IRREVOCABLE. 


NOT  all  I  could  have  wished  her :  you  are 

right, 
But  blessings  brighten   as  they  take   their 

flight. 

If  I  could  see  her  yonder,  in  the  chair 
She  sat  in  yesterday  ;  could  touch  her  hair  ; 
Or   clasp   her    living   hand    in    mine    once 

more, — 
I  should  be  happier  than  I  ever  was  before. 

She  was  not  so  responsive  to  my  touch, 
She  aid  not  love  me — as  you  say — so  much, 
That   I  should  grieve   with   grief   befitting 

him 
Whose  cup  of  joy   was  emptied  from   the 

brim. 

But  losing  all,  it  does  not  help  my  need 
To  know  the  actual  loss  is  very  small  In 
deed. 


We  never  should  have   married :    that 


ap. 


pears 

A  clear  deduction  from  the  weary  years 
Of  difference  between  us.     She  was  young 
And  passionate  ;  not  apt  to  rule  her  tongue  : 
And  I,  with  riper  power  of  self-control, 
For  ever  failed  to  strike  the  key-note  of  her 

soul. 

And  yet  I  loved  her  :  at  the  last  she  knew, 
Past  doubting,  that  my  love   was  fond  and 

true. 
Could  my   desire  have   stayed  her   failing 

breath, 
And   drawn  her    from   the   cruel  clasp   of 

Death, 
She  might  have  learned — I  think  she  would 

have  learned — 
To  give  me  all  for  which  my  hungry  spirit 

yearned. 

That  parting  anguish  to  us  both  revealed, 
Too  late,   alas !  the  chance  that   Life   con 
cealed. 

As  if  these  embers,  smoldering  at  my  feet, 
Should  glow  again  with  red  and  quivering 

heat, 

And  leap  alive  in  airy  jets  of  flame, 
Because  a  sudden  breath  across  their  dulness 


It  might  have  failed  me  in  the  trial  ?  Yes, — 
But  I  would  risk  the  trial  none  the  less. 
God  knows,  there  is  no  rough    and    bitter 

track 
I   would  not    tread   with  joy,   to  bring  her 

back. 
For  blessings  brighten  as  they   take   their 

flight, 
And  life  is  very  desolate  to  me  to-n'ght. 


ASHES  OF  ROSES. 


SOMEBODY  promised — "  Or  ever  June  closes 
I  will  be  with  you  to  gather  the  roses : 
Failing  my  share  of  the  blossomy  treasure 
May  lavished  on  you  in  bountiful  measure, 
Missing  the  dew  and  delight  of  the  spring, 
June,  I  affirm,  shall  atone  for  the  thing. 
When   the    sweet    summer   is    blushing   in 

roses, 
Watch  for  me,  welcome  me — ere  your  June 

closes." 

Somebody  else,  by  the  casement  leaf-shaded, 

Watched  till  her  roses  had  blossomed  and 
faded  : 

Counted  the  beautiful  days  a^  they  vanished  ; 

Hoped  until  hope  from  her  bosom  was  ban 
ished. 

When  the  fair  queen  of  the  summer  was 
dead, 

Sighing,  she  turned  from  the  window,  r.nd 
said — 

"  June  "will  return  for  the  rose  and  tl.e 
clover, 

But  oh  !  for  the  June  of  my  heart  that  is 
over  1 " 


KATE    PUTNAM   OSGOOP. 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 


OUT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  tliem  into  the  river  lane  ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace ; 

The  merry  wliistlfi  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow- 
swamp, 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun, 

And    stealthily    followed    the     foot-path 
damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying 

feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom  ; 

And   now,    when   the   cows   came  back    at 

night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late  : 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was 
done  ; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coining,  one  by  one  : 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind ; 

Cropping  the  butter-cups  out  of  the  grass — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 
The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue  ; 

And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 
Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again  ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 


The  great  tears    sprang  to    their  meeting 

eyes  ; 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips 

are  dumb : 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 


UNDER  THE  MAPLE. 

THE  start  it  gave  me  just  now,  to  see — 
As  I  stood  in  the  door-way  looking  out — 

Rob  Greene  at  play  by  the  maple-tree, 
Throwing  the  scarlet  leaves  about  ! 

It  carried  me  back  a  long,  long  way  ; 

Ten  years  ago — how  the  time  runs  by  ! — • 
There  was  nobody  left  at  home  that  day 

But  little  Jimmy  and  father  and  I : 

My  husband's  father,  an  old,  old  man, 
Close  on  to  eighty,  but  still  so  smart : 

It  was  only  of  late  that  he  began 
To  stay  in  the  house  and  doze  apart. 

But  the  fancy  took  him  that  afternoon 
To  go  to  the  meadow  to  watch  the  men ; 

And  as  fast  as  I  arg'ued,  just  so  soon 
He  went  right  over  it  all  again  ; 

Till,  seeing  how  set  he  seemed  to  be, 

I  thought,  with  the  air  so  warm  and  still, 

It  could  not  hurt  him  to  go  with  me, 
And  sit  for  a  little  under  the  hill. 

So,  lending  my  arm  to  his  feeble  tread, 
Together  slowly  we  crossed  the  road, 

While  Jim  and  his  cart  ran  on  ahead 
With  a  heap  of  pillows  for  wagon  load. 

We  made  him  a  soft  seat,  cushioned  about, 
Of  an  old  chair  out  of  the  barn  close  by ; 

Then  Jim  went  off  with  a  caper  and  shout, 
While  we  sat  silent,  father  and  I. 

For  me,  I  was  watching  the  men  at  work, 
And  looking  at  Jack,  my  oldest  son — 

So  like  his  father  ! — he  never  Avould  shirk, 
But   kept   straight   on   till  the  stint  was 
done. 

Seventeen  was  Jack  that  last  July  : 

A  great  stout  fellow,  so  tall  and  strong! 

And  I  spoke  to  the  old  man  by-and  by, 
To  see  how  fast  he  was  getting  along. 

But  father  had  turned  away  his  head, 
A -folio  wing  Jimmy's  busy  game 

With  the  maple  leaves,  whose,bloody  red 
Flared  up  in  the  sun  like  so  much  flaine. 


433 


KATE    PUTNAM    OSGOOD. 


His  lips,  as  lie  looked,  began  to  move, 
And  I  heard  him  mutter  a  word  or  two  : 

"  Yes,  Joe  !     A  fire  in  the  Weston  grove  ? 
Just  wait — one  minute — I'll  go  with  you  !  " 

"Why,    father,"    I    cried,     "what  do   you 
mean  ?  " 

For  1  knew  he  talked  of  his  brother  Joe, 
The  twin  that  was  drowned  at  scarce  fifteen, 

Sixty  summers  and  more  ago. 

"  The  sun  has  dazzled  you  :  don't  you  see 
That  isn't  a  fire  a-blazing  there  ? 

It's  only  Jim,  by  the  maple-tree, 

Tossing  the  red  leaves  into  the  air." 

But  still  he  nodded,  and  looked,  and  smiled, 
Whispering  something  I  could  not  hear; 

Till,  fairly  frightened,  I  called  the  child, 
Who   left   his   play   and  came  frolicking 
near. 

The  old  man  started  out  of  his  seat  : 
"  Yes,  Joe,  yes  ;  I'm  coming/'  said  he. 

A  moment  he  kept  his  tottering  feet, 
And  then  his  weight  grew  heavy  on  me. 

"  Father  !  "  I  screamed  ;  but  he  did  not  mind, 
Though  they  all  came  running  about  us 
then : 

The  poor  old  body  was  left  behind, 

And  the  twins  were  young  together  again. 

And  I   wonder  sometimes,  when  I  wake  at 
night, 

"Was  it  his  eyes  or  my  own  were  dim? 
Did  something  stand,  beyond  my  sight, 

Among  the  leaves,  and  beckon  to  him  ? 

Well!    there    comes    Jim    up   the   interval 
road : 

Ten  summers  ago  ?  yes,  all  of  ten  : 
Th;,t's  Baby  Jack  on  the  pumpkin  load, 

And  Jim  is  as  old  as  Jack  was  then. 


THE  SOUL'S  QUEST. 

A  RAD  soul  knocked,  as  the  night  came  down, 

At  the  gate  where  Time  as  Warder  stands  ; 

Then-  was  dust  in   the  folds  of  her  pilgrim 

gown, 

And  blood  on  the  staff  in  her   wounded 
hands. 

"Whence  nrt  thou  come,  witli  a  cheek  as  pale 
As  the  lilies  drooping  above  thy  brow? 

Thine  eyes  arc  heavy,  thy  footsteps  fail; 
Thou  sorrowful  soul,  what  seekest  thou? 

Oh,  T  am  worn  with  the  rocky  road 

My  faltering  feet  were  forced  to  climb  I 

1  have  come  up  from  :l  f;)  •  abode 
To  beg  for  a  boon,  O  pitiful  Time  ! 

And  how  hast  thou  reached    these   hidden 

towers 

JNo  mortal  vision  before  hath  found? 
I  have  followed  the  lingering  scent  of  the 

flowers 
Borne  out  of  my  life's  fair  garden-ground  : 


Young  buds  of  hope,  and  the  lavish  bloom 
Of  joys  cut  down  in  their  splendid  prime  : 

I  am  faint  for  lack  of  their  rich  perfume  ; 
Give  back  my  roses,  O  cruel  Time ! 

I  have  taken  thy  flowers  and  planted  them 
Where  the   breath  of  an  endless  summer 
blows ; 

But  left  I  not  by  their  broken  stem 
A  living  lily  for  every  rose  ? 

Behold,    they    are    wreathed    around     thy 
brow  ; 

Thy  tresses  scatter  their  dewy  balm  ; 
More  fair  than  the  flowers  of  earth,  I  trow, 

Are  Memory's  lilies,  pure  and  calm. 

Oh,  fresh  and  sweet  though  my  lilies  be, 
I  thirst  for  those  cups  of  spice  again  ! 

Thou  pleading  soul,  I  will  render  thee 

The  boon  thou  hast   sotight  through  toil 
and  pain. 

Unloose  my  lilies  from  out  thy  hair, 
And  bind  in  their  place  thy  roses  red. 

Nay,  nay.  but  suffer  me  still  to  wear 

This  fragrant  bloom  of  the  days  that  are 
dead. 

Shall  I  rob  for  thy  earth  my  garden  wall 
Of  the  lily  leaf  and  the  rich  rose-vine  ? 

Thou  shalt  enter  at  last  and  gather  all, 
But  choose  thou  to-day  'twixt  thine  and 
mine. 

Those  roses  the  fullness  of  life  had  lent 
The  odor  and  flush  of  its  fervid  years ; 

But  they  breathed  not  the  rare  and  subtle 

scent 
Of  the  pure  pale  lilies  bom  of  tears. 

Slowly  at  length  to  the  weary  track, 

From  the  flowers  she  had  followed  so  far 

astray, 
Sweet  Memory's  chaplet  bearing  back, 

The  sad  soul   turned   on    her   downward 
way. 


JIMMY. 


JIMMY  and  I  are  fellows  for  play ! 

Never  tired  of  it,  rain  or  shine. 
Jimmy  was  six  the  last  birthday, 

While  I  was  only— sixty-nine  ! 

So  little  Master  Commonsense 

Gives  himself  superior  airs, 
Guiding  my  inexperience 

By  the  wisdom  under  his  own  white  hairs 

Sometimes  it  happens  the  hoary  sage — 
Over-anxious  for  Number  One — 

Tunis  to  account  my  tender  age, 
And  1  am  most  atrociously  "done." 

No  matter  how  it  may  chance  to  be, 
Jimmy's  argument  never  fails  : 

The  copper  is  always  wrong  for  me, 
And  Jimmy  is  winner,  heads  or  tails. 


KATE    PUTNAM    OSGOOD, 


439 


Wt.ll,  1  have  lived  to  be  boy  and  man, 
Dad  and  grandad,  and  yet,  I  vow, 

Never  was  I  in  my  threescore  and  ten 
Half  so  sharp  as  Jimmy  is  now  ! 

And  sadly  the  question  bothers  me, 
As  I  stop  in  my  play  to  look  at  him — 

What  will  the  Twentieth  Century  be, 

If  the  Nineteenth's  youngsters  are  all  like 
Jim  ? 

BY  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

IT  was  not  anger  that  changed  him  of  late  ; 

It  was  not  diffidence  made  him  shy  ; 
Yon  branch  that  has  blossomed  above  the 
gate 

Could  guess  the  riddle — and  so  can  I. 

What  does  it  mean  when  the  bold  eyes  fall, 
And  the  ready  tongue  at  its  merriest  trips  ? 

What  potent  influence  holds  in  thrall 
The  eager  heart  and  the  burning  lips  ? 

Ah  me  !  to  falter  before  a  girl 

Whose  shy  lids  never  would  let  you  know 
(Save  for  the  lashes'  wilful  curl) 

The  pansy-purple  asleep  below. 

Nothing  to  frighten  a  man  away — 
Only  a  cheek  like  a  strawberry-bed  ; 

Only  a  ringlet's  gold  astray, 

And  a  mouth  like  a  baby's,  dewy-red. 

Ah,  baby-mouth,  with  your  dimpled  bloom ! 

If  but  yon  blossomy  apple-bough 
Could  whisper  a  secret  learned  in  the  gloom, 

That  deepens  its  blushes  even  now. 

No  need,  for  the  secret  at  last  is  known : 

Yet  so,  I  fancy,  it  might  not  be 
Had  he  not  met  her,  by  chance,  alone, 

There  in  the  lane,  by  the  apple-tree. 

MARGUERITE. 

WHAT  aileth  pretty  Marguerite  ? 

Such  April  moods  about  her  meet  ! 

She  sighs,  and  yet  she  is  not  sad  ; 

She  smiles,  with  naught  to  make  her  glad. 

A  thousand  flitting  fancies  chase 
The  sun  and  shadow  on  her  face  : 
The  wind  is  not  more  light  than  she, 
Nor  deeper  the  unsounded  sea. 

What  aileth  pretty  Marguerite  ? 
Doth  none  discern  her  secret  sweet  ? 
Yet  earth  and  air  have  many  a  sign 
The  heart  of  maiden  to  divine. 

In  budding  leaf  and  building  nest 
Lie  kindred  mysteries  half  confest ; 
And  whoso  hath  the  gift  of  sight 
May  Nature's  riddle  read  aright. 

Not  all  at  once  the  lily's  heart 
Is  kissed  by  wooing  waves  apart : 
Not  in  a  day  the  lavish  May 
Flings  all  her  choicest  flowers  away. 

Fair  child  !  shall  potent  Love  alone 
Forget  to  send  his  heralds  on? 
Ah,  happy  lips,  that  dare  repeat 
What  aileth  pretty  Marguerite  ! 


MOTHER  MICHAUD. 

IT  was  early  morn  when  Mother  Michaud 
Passed  by  the  guard  at  the  city  gate, 

Drowsily  measuring,  to  and  fro, 

The  narrow  length  of  the  iron  grate. 

Still,  far  and  faint  in  the  twilight  swoon, 
Where  dark  and  dawning  at  straggle  meet, 

Like  her  own  pale  shadow,  the  waning  moon 
Hung  lonely  over  the  lonely  street. 

By  winding  stairway  and  gable  quaint — 
Carved  over  again  in  shade  below — 

By  arch  and  turret  and  pillared  saint, 

With  lightsome  step  walked  Mother  Mi 
chaud. 

Pleasant  it  was  in  the  smoky  town 
The  rosy  old  country  face' to  see  ! 

The  high  white  cap  and  the  peasant  gown 
Brought  up  a  vision  of  Normandie — 

Normandie,  with  its  fair  green  swells, 
The  sweep  of  its  orchards'  flowery  flood, 

Ways  that  wind  into  woody  dells, 

Corn  fields  red  with  the  poppy's  blood. 

There,  in  the  corner,  the  wheel  stood  still 
That    used  to  whir  like  the  bees  on  the 
thatch  ; 

The  cherries  might  tap  on  the  window-sill, 
And  the  vine,  unloosened,  lift  the  latch  ; 

But  Mother  Michaud  had  left  behind 
The  sun  and  scent  of  her  native  plain, 

Far  over  the  darkling  hills  to  find 
The  face  of  her  youngest  son  again. 

Nine  long  years  had  come  and  gone, 
Nine  long  years,  since  the  April  day 

When  into  the  mists  of  the  early  dawn 
He  melted,  a  kindred  mist,  away. 

And  year  after  year  the  bright  boy-face, 
That   never  came  back   from   that  cloud- 
land  dim, 

Beckoned  her  out  of  the  empty  space, 
Till  it  drew  her  at  last  to  follow  him. 

Lonely  and  dark  in  the  dawning  spread 
The  city's  tangle  of  court  and  street  ; 

But  the  stones  that  answered  her  hurrying 

tread 
Had  echoed  before  to  his  passing  feet ! 

Lonely  and  dark  ? — But  a  sound,  a  glare, 
Strike  on  the  sense  like  a  sudden  blow  ! 

Press  closer  up  to  the  shadowy  stair, 
Out  of  the  tumult,  Mother  Michaud  ! 

Clatters  the  street  to  the  soldiers'  tram}), 
File  on  h'le,  with  a  stately  sheen, 

Under  the  flare  of  the  fitful  lain]) 

Held  high  in  the  cart  that  rolls  between. 

The  heads  carved  over  the  doorway  there 
Grin  into  view  fora  moment  plain, 

Mocking  the  mute,  bewildered  stare 

Of  the  mother  who  finds  her  son  again. 

Finds  him,  to  lose  him  at  last — like  this  ! 
Chained   like  a  wolf,  with  those  wolfish 
eyes  ! 


440 


KATE    PUTNAM    OSGOOD. 


Dead,  with  never  a  mother's  kiss, 

Ere  yon  low  moon  drops  out  of  the  skies ! 

Forward  she  sprang,  in  the  torch-light  blaze 
Full  overhead  as  the  cart  went  by — 

All  her  soul  in  that  straining  ga/e, 

All  her  strength  in  that  maddened  cry. 

He  turned,  as  it  smote  through  his  dulling 
ear*  : 

Their  wild  eyes  met — and  the  cart  drove  on. 
So  Mother  Michaud,  after  nine  long  years, 

Looked  into  the  face  of  her  youngest  son. 

IN  THE  SEED. 

You  have  chosen  coldly  to  cast  away 

The  love  they  tell  you  is  faithless  found. 
Pity  or  trust  it  is  vain  to  pray — 

Your   heart    they    have    hardened,    your 

senses  bound. 
You  have  broken  the  wreaths  that  clasped 

you  round, 
The   strength  of  the  vine  and  the  opening 

flower : 

Love,  torn  and  trampled  on  stony  ground, 
Is  left  to  die  in  its  blossom  hour. 

Well,  go  your   ways  ;   but,  wherever  they 

lead, 

They  cannot  leave  me  wholly  behind. 
From  the  flower,  as   it   falls,  there  falls  a 

seed 
Whose  roots  round  the  root  of  life  shall 

wind. 

So  sure  as  the  soul  in  the  flesh  is  shrined, 
So  sure  as  the  fire  in  the  cloud  is  set, 

Be  \ou  ever  so  cold  or  ever  so  blind, 
You  shall  find  and  fathom  and  feel  me  yet. 

As  the  germ  of  a  tree  in  the  close  dark  earth 

Struggles  for  life  in  its  breathless  tomb, 
Quickening  painfully  into  birth, 

Writhing  its  way  up  to  light  and  room  ; 

As  it   spreads   its  growth  till   the    great 

boughs  loom 
A  shade  and  a  greenness  wide  and  high, 

And   the    birds   sing    under   the   "myriad 

bloom, 
And  the  top  looks  into  the  infinite  sky ; 

So  si  mil  it  he  with  the  love  to-day 

Flung    under   your    feet  as    a    worthless 

thing. 
The  hour  and  the  spot  I  cannot  sav 

When-   the   seed,  fate-sown,    at   last  shall 

spring: 

Beyond,  it  may  be,  the  narrow  ring 
Of  our  little  world  in  swarming  space, 

After  weary  length  of   journeying, 
It  shall  drop   from  the  wind  to  its  destined 
place. 

But  somewhere,  I  know,  it  shall  reach  its 

1 1 eight ! 
Sometimes    it   shall    conquer    this    cruel 

wrong  t 

The  sun  by  day,  and  the  moon  by  night, 
Shower  and  season,  shall  bear' it  along. 
You  will  sleep   and   wake  while  it  waxes 
strong 


And  green  beside  the  appointed  ways, 

Till,  full  of  blossom  and  dew  and  song, 
You  shall  find  it  there  after  many  days. 

Perchance  it  shall  be  amid  long  despair 

Of  toiling  over  the  desert  sand  ; 
When   your   eyes  are    burned  by  the  level 

glare, 
And    the    staff    is   fire   to   your    bleeding 

hand. 
Then    the  waving  of  boughs   in  a  silent 

land, 
And  a  wonder  of  green  afar  shall  spread, 

And  your  feet  as  under  a  tent  shall  stand, 
With   shadow    and   sweetness    about   your 
head. 

And  my  soul,  like  the  unseen  scent  of  the 
flower, 

Shall  circle  the  heights  and  the  depths  of 

the  tree  : 
Nothing  of  all  in  that  consummate  hour 

That  shall  not  come  as  a  part  of  me  ! 

This  world  or  that  may  my  triumph  see — 
But  love  and  life  can  never  be  twain, 

And  time  as  a  breath  of  the  wind  shall  be, 
When  we  meet  and  grow  together  again  ! 


UNDER  THE  MOON. 


LIKE  a  lily-flower  uplifted 

Full  blown  on  the  blue  tide-sway, 
Into  the  heaven  blossoms 

The  perfect  moon  of  May. 

White  under  her  own  white  glory 
She  sees,  on  the  green  young  ground, 

The  fallen  bloom  of  the 'cherry 
Drift  over  a  double  mound. 

There,  where  the  cottage  chimneys 
Peer  dim  through  a  mist  of  trees, 

They  sat  by  the  hearth  at  evening, 
With  the  child  about  their  knees. 

Three  empty  seats  by  the  fireside, 
Two  graves  'neath  the  orchard  bough 

The  dead  are  at  rest  together  : 
But  where  is  the  living  now ! 

Pale  in  the  smoky  circle 

That  fain  would  shadow  her  noon, 
Over  the  lights  of  the  city 

Trembles  the  large  May  moon. 

But  blind  to  that  searching  splendor, 

Deaf  to  the  riotous  street, 
He  lies  in  a  drunken  slumber — 

The  child  that  played  at  their  feet. 

Were  it  not  well,  in  the  cradle, 
Long  since  the  babe  had  died? 

Had  the  little  headstone  risen 
Those  two  green  mounds  beside  ? 

Nay,  this  is  not  the  ending, 

O  child  of  their  love  and  prayer  ! 

(Jod's  moon  is  one  in  the  heavens, 
His  mercy  everywhere. 


KATE    PUTNAM    OSGOOD. 


441 


A  CHILDISH  FANCY. 

OH  mother !  see  how  pale  and  wet 

The  flowers  on  father's  grave  are  lying  ! 

It  must  be  watching  you  has  set 
The  little  daisy-buds  to  crying  ! 

Poor  child  !  and  do  you  think  the  earth 
Sorrows  because  our  hearts  are  aching? 

Look,  then,  with  what  a  careless  mirth 
That  sunlight  on  his  bed  is  breaking ! 

Yes,  but  you  called  the  great  blue  air 
God's  home,  to  all  His  angels  given ; 

And  so  perhaps  the  sunbeam  there 
Is  father  smiling  up  in  heaven ! 


SIXTEEN  AND  SIXTY. 

SING  with  me,  laugh  with  me,  sister  Spring ! 

Oh !  we  are  happy,  we  two,  to-day  ! 
Are  we  two,  or  the  self -same  thing  ? 

Thou  and  I,  0  beautiful  May  ? 

I  thrill  as  a  leaf  to  the  circling  air  : 

The  blood  in  my  veins  is  like  sap  in  the 
vine : 

The  wild  bees  follow  my  floating  hair, 
Made  sweet  with  buds   for  this  lover  of 


Frame  me  in  lijrht  for  his  eyes  anew  ! 

Does   the  earth  shrink   under  your  gaze, 

O  sky  ? 
I  am  fair  as  a  flower  ;  I  am  fresh  as  the  dew  : 

We  are  young  together,  the  year  and  I. 

Heavens !  to  think  there  can  come  a  time 
When  the  sense  is  dull  and  the  pulse  is 
slow  ! 

To  stand,  in  the  spring-tide's  golden  prime, 
The  single  blot  on  the  whole  great  glow ! 

Poor  madame  yonder,  with  all  her  gold, 
She  is  pale  and  wrinkled,   and   old  and 
alone  ; 

She  is  less  alive  than  the  mossy  mould 
That  clings  to  the  top  of  that  buried  stone. 

I  never  can  be  like  that,  I  know, 

We   have   years  on   years  of  our  youth's 
bright  flower  ; 

And  if  ever  my  love  must  let  him  go, 

I  shall  drop  and  die  in  the  self-same  hour. 

Hark  !  he  is  coming !     The  faint  winds  sigh 
Before  his  feet  to  bring  him  soon  ! 

While  over  us  both,  in  the  warm  blue  sky, 
The  sun  goes  quivering  up  to  noon. 

One  may  venture  to  trust  the  sun  to-day  : 
There  is  warmth  at  last  in  that  seeming 
blaze. 

At  last  !  — already  the  midst  of  May  ! 
So  backward  the  springs  are  nowadays  ! 

What  do  I  see  by  the  terrace  there, 

That   dazzles   so   white   on   the   slope   of 
green  ? 

It  is  little  Laura,  with  flowers  in  her  hair  ? 
Ah  yes  :  to-day  she  is  just  sixteen. 


Poor  silly  baby  !  I  understand 

What  keeps  you  loitering  there  alone  : 

Each   bough  in  your  path  an  outstretched 

hand, 
And  every  whisper  a  lover's  tone. 

You  fancy,  perhaps,  in  your  giddy  youth, 
I  can  never  have  dreamed  such  dreams  as 
you  ? 

Eh,  child  ?     I  have  had  my  May,  forsooth  ! 
Fairer  than  yours  while  it  lasted,  too. 

To  think  that  the  time  has  been  when  even 

I,  too,  was  a  fool  in  Paradise  ! 
When  the  spring  was  the  year,  and  the  earth 
a  heaven, 

And  heaven  itself  was  in  two  blue  eyes  ! 

Only  sixteen  !     Such  a  weary  round 

Before    she  can   find  what   the   whole  is 
worth  ! 

Her  Garden  of  Eden  common  ground, 

And  her  idol  himself  but  a  lump  of  earth. 

Ah,  well !    like  the  rest  she  must  live  and 

learn. 

The  flower  of  youth  must  wither  and  fall ; 
The  fire  of  love  to  its  ashes  burn  ; 

For  me — thank  Heaven  !  I  have  done  with 
it  all. 


AWAKENED. 

MY  heart  was  like  a  hidden  lyre 

In  silence  that  so  long  hath  lain — 
Not  e'en  the  cold,  neglected  wire 

llemembereth  its  own  sweet  strain : 
Till  thou,  a  breeze  from  summer  shore, 

Breathed  tenderly  across  the  string, 
That,  waking  into  life  once  more, 

Began  the  broken  song  to  sing. 

My  soul  was  like  a  diamond  spark 

Imprisoned  in  the  rocky  mine, 
Unconscious,  in  that  eyeless  dark, 

What  hidden  fires  within  it  shine  : 
Till  thou,  a  gleam  of  noonday  light, 

Upon  the  buried  jewel  came, 
That,  breaking  from  its  long,  dull  night, 

Leaped  up,  a  many-tinted  flame. 

My  life  was  like  a  pallid  flower 

Within  the  shadow  sprung,  alone, 
Forgotten  of  the  sun  and  shower, 

And  withering  ere  it  has  blown  : 
Till  thou,  a  drop  of  morning  clew, 

Stole  softly  downward  through  the  gloom, 
And  straight  the  bud  asunder  flew 

To  fill  the  air  with  balm  and  bloom. 

Then  take,  and  fashion  to  thy  will, 

This  heart  and  soul  and  life  of  mine ! 
Shall  not  thine  own  free  gifts  fulfill 

Their  utmost  hope'  in  seeking  thine  ? 
I  claim  no  harvest  from  a  field 

My  hands  have  tended  not :  the  tone, 
The  fragrance,  and  the  light  revealed 

By  thee,  belong  to  thee  alone  ! 


443 


KATE    P-UTNAM     OSGOOD. 


SAWDUST. 

LAST  night  I  happened,  quite  by  chance 

Intruding  lute  upon  the  scene, 
To  see  ;i  most  delightful  dance 

My  little  sister's  dolls  between. 

It  was  a  party  so  select, 

Conducted  in  the  style  approved, 
I  really  hardly  could  detect 

'Twas  not  the  circle  where  /moved  ! 

A  manikin  I  marked,  whom  all 

Seemed,  as  one  doll,  to  hang  about 

(Except  a  cynic  by  the  wall, 

Whose  grapes  were  sour  enough,  no  doubt). 

And  as  I  saw  the  eager  smile 

Of  such  a  very  pretty  ninny — 
Whose  waist  and  hair  and  general  style 

Were  not  unlike  my  cousin  Winny — 

And  watched  that  other  savage  face, 
A  startling  sort  of  likeness  came 

Between  the  poor  doll-fellow's  case 

And — some  one's  whom  I  need  not  name. 

And  still  the  question  puzzles  me, 
Remembering  the  look  lie  wore  — 

Am  1  a  doll  ?  or  can  it  be 

That  I  have  seen  it  all  before  ? 

Though,  save  myself,  no  creature  there 

Had  any  claim  upon  a  soul, 
That  court  about  the  millionaire 

Looked  strangely  natural,  on  the  whole. 

Who   would   have   thought  the  same  good 
sense 

Common  to  dolls'  and  human  brains, 
Or  such  a  trifling  difference 

'T \vixt  blood  and  sawdust  in  the  veins  ! 


IN  CLOVEK. 


THE  path  drops  down  the  hill -side,  and 
creeps  through  the  clover  a  while, 

To  tangle  itself  in  thistles,  at  last,  the  other 
side  of  the  stile. 

Bill's  meadow  and  mine  together  there,  per 
haps  for  the  contrast's  sake, 

For  Bill's  is  as  rich  a  clover-field  as  ever 
bothered  a  rake  : 

While  mine! — well,  I  bought  it,  weeds  and 
all,  this  summer,  of  Parson  West : 

lie's  great  in  the  pulpit  Sundays — but  his 
farming's  none  of  the  best  ! 

Xot  that  1  mean  to  grumble,  for  I  think  my 
self  lucky  enough 

To  get  a  piece  of  my  own  at  last  ;  what  odds 
if  it's  ever  so  rough  ? 

But  here,  at  my  nooning,  I  catch  a  whiff  of 

the  clover  now  and  then, 
Mixed  with  a  laugh,  and  look  over  the  wall, 

to  see  her  there  again, 


Talking  with  Bill.  It's  the  queerest  thing — 
if  girls  were  not  always  so  ! — 

What  brings  her  so  often,  lately  ?  It  isn't 
for  him,  I  know. 

And  Bill,  he  takes  it  so  easy ! — while  she, 

with  a  pretty  art, 
Mixes  her  smiles  and  blushes  in  a  wuy  I've 

learned  by  heart, 

Looks  up  and  down  together,  enough  to  be 
wilder  a  man, 

He  pulls  at  that  hard  old  cider,  with  barely 
a  glance  from  the  can  ! 

Well,  well,  I  grudge  the  time  to  laugh  till 

after  my  work  is  done  ; 

But   only   to   see   a  fellow  in  clover — more 

ways  than  one — 

Turn  coolly  round  to  feeding,  like  an  ox  let 

out  from  a  stall, 
Careless   of    summer   sight  or   sound,    and 

something  sweeter  than  all ! 

You   lump  of  bread   and   butter,  Bill !  if  1 

were  there  in  your  stead  ! 
There's  more  than  hay  in   your  clover-field, 

and  a  meaning  in  lips  so  red  ! 

If  only  I  stood  there,  close  to  her,  with  the 

clover  up  to  my  knees, 
Full  of  the  dew   and  the  sunlight,  and  the 

whirl  and  hum  of  the  bees, 

I'd  envy  neither  your  cider,  nor  the  blossom- 
wine  they  drink  : 

There's  a  sweeter  honey  than  ever  yet  was 
ripened  for  either,  I  think. 

Well,  it's  easier  wishing  than  working,. but 

there  isn't  much  of  a  doubt 
A.   man    must    raise  his    clover    himself,  or 

manage  to  do  without, 

Bill's  was  his  father's  before  him,  it's  true, 

but  Bill's  no  rule  for  me  ; 
I  reckon  he's  no  more  like  to  win  what  both 

of  us  want,  you  see. 

So,  Dobbin,  nooning  is  over.     What  !  is  she 

going  awav  '! 
Kat  on,  old  horse,  for  a  little  ;  she's  sure  to 

have  something  to  say. 

It's  always  the   same:  a  word  or  a  look  just 

as  she  passes  the  gate, 
With  a  Miiile  that  dazzles  my  wits  away  till 

after  it's  all  too  late. 

No    matter  :  some    day,  when   my   clover  is 

growing  tall  and  red. 
I'm  bound  to  ask  a  question  shall  ,nake  her 

falter  instead. 

It's  only  waiting  and  working  a  little  longer 

still : 
Get  up  to  your  work,  old  fellow  !  she  doesn't 

c<  t  re  for  Bill ! 


MES.    S.    M.    B.    PI  ATT. 


THE  FANCY  BALL. 


As  Morning  you'd  have  me  rise 
On  that  shining  world  of  art  ; 

You.  forget :  I  have  too  much  dark  in   my 

.eyes — 
•And  too  much  dark  in  my  heart. 

"  Then  go  as  the  Night — in  June  : 
Pass,  dreamily,  by  the  crowd, 
With   jewels   to  mock   the  stars  and  the 

moon, 
And  shadowy  robes  like  cloud. 

'  Or  as  Spring,  with  a  spray  in  your  hair 

Of  blossoms  as  yet  unblown  ; 
It  will  suit  you  well,  for  our  youth  should 

wear 
The  bloom  in  the  bud  alone. 

''  Or  drift  from  the  outer  gloom 

With  the  soft  white  silence  of  Snow  :" 
I  should  melt  myself  with  the  warm,  close 

room — 
Or  my  own  life's  burning.     No. 

"  Then  fly  through  the  glitter  and  mirth 

As  a  Bird  of  Paradise  :  " 
Nay,  the  waters  I  drink  have  touch'd  the 

earth  : 
I  breathe  no  summer  of  spice. 

"  Then "  Hush  :  if  I  go  at  all, 

(It  will  make  them  stare  and  shrink, 
It  will  look  so  strange  at  a  Fancy  Ball,) 
I  will  go  as Myself,  I  think  ! 

TWELVE   HOURS  A  TART. 

HE  loved  me.     But  he  loved,  likewise, 

This  morning's  world  in  bloom  and  wings  ; 
Ah,  does  he  love  the  world  that  lies 

In  dampness,  whispering  shadowy  things, 
Under  this  little  band  of  moon? 

He  loves  me  ?     Will  he  fail  to  see 

A  phantom  hand  has  touch'd  my  hair 

(And  waver'd,  withering,  over  me) 
To  leave  a  subtle  grayness  there, 
Below  the  outer  shine  of  June  ? 

He  loves  me  ?     Would  he  call  it  fair, 
Theflush'd  half-flower  lie  left  me,  say? 

For  it  has  pass'd  beneath  the  glare 
And  from  my  bosom  drops  away, 
Shaken  into  the  grass  with  pain  ? 

He  loves  me  ?     Well,  I  do  not  know. 

A  song  in  plumage  cross'd  the  hill 
At  sunrise  when  I  felt  him  go — 

And  song  and  plumage  now  are  still. 
He  could  not  praise  the  bird  again. 


He  loves  me  ?     Vail'd  in  mist  I  stand, 
My  veins  less  high  with  life  than  when 

To-day's  thin  dew  was  in  the  land, 
Vaguely  less  beautiful  than  then — 
Myself  a  dimness  with  the  dim. 

He  loves  me  ?     I  am  faint  with  fear. 
|       He  never  saw  me  quite  so  old  ; 
I  never  met  him  quite  so  near 

My  grave,  nor  quite  so  pale  and  cold  : — 
Nor  quite  so  sweet,  he  says,  to  him  ! 


TO-DAY. 


AH,  real  thing  of  bloom  and  breath, 
I  can  not  love  you  while  you  stay. 

Put  on  the  dim,  still  charm  of  death, 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away, 
And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday  ! 

Let  empty  flower-dust  at  my  feet 
Remind  me  of  the  buds  you  wear  ; 

Let  the  bird's  quiet  show  how  sweet 
The  far-off  singing  made  the  air  ; 
And  let  your  dew  through  frost  look  fair. 

In  mourning  you  I  shall  rejoice. 
Go  :  for  the  bitter  word  may  be 

A  music — in  the  vanish'd  voice  ; 
And  on  the  dead  face  I  may  see 
How  bright  its  frown  has  been  to  me. 

Then  in  the  haunted  grass  I'll  sit, 
Half  careful  in  your  wither'd  place, 

And  watch  your  lovely  shadow  flit 
Across  To-morrow's  sunny  face, 
And  vex  her  with  your  p,-rfect  grace. 

So,  real  thing  of  bloom  nnd  breath, 
I  weary  of  you  while  you  stay. 

Put  on  the  dim,  still  charm  of  death, 
Fade  to  a  phantom,  float  away, 
And  let  me  call  you  Yesterday  ! 


MEETING  A  MIRROR. 

BELOVED  of  beautiful  and  eager  eyes, 

It  had  its  honors  from  the  guests  below; 
But  it  went   somewhat   nearer  to  the  skies 

As  it  grew  old,  you  know. 
Still,   from  the  gilded  splendor  of  the  day 

That  Vanity  sees  shining  in  its  plsuv. 
1  turned  with'  yearning  for  the  pleased,  slow 
way 

It  used  to  hold  my  face. 


444 


MRS.     S.  M.    B.    PI  ATT. 


Far  up  the  stair  and  sliunn'd  of  faded  eyes 
I  found  the  thing  that  I  had  loved  before  : 

It  took  my  face,  grew  dead- white  with  sur 
prise, 
Held  it — then  saw  no  more  ! 

Suddenly  blinded :  for  the  Mirror  shed 
Tears    for   dim    hair   it   praised   to    suns 
gone  by, 

And  One  to  whom  once  of  it  I  gayly  said, 
"  My  rival — dear  as  I ! " 

Companions,  in  our  time,  of  pleasant  lights, 
I    thought,    and   music   and   rich   foreign 

blooms, 

What  shall  we  find  for   those  fair  evening- 
sights 
In  lonesome  upper  rooms  ? 

The  misty  Mirror  show'd  a  calm  reproof, 
Receiving  there  a  higher  company, 

In  dust  and  empty  silence  near  the  roof, 
Than  we  were  wont  to  see. 

Its  pride  in  jewel'd  reverence  was  gone, 
And  quiet  tenderness  was  in  its  place, 

That  took   the   sweet    stars,    as   they  gliin- 

mer'd  on 
In  chill  clouds,  to  its  grace. 


EARTH  IN  HEAVEN. 


SOMEWHERE,   my  friend,  in   the   beautiful 

skies, 

Awaiting  us  lovely  and  clear, 
We  shall   find  all   beauty   that   leaves  our 

eyes 

So  vacant  in  vanishing  here  : 
Not  the  human  alone  has  died 
To  go  up  and  be  glorified. 

I  shall  find  my  childhood  playing  there 
In  the  grass  where  it  used  to  play, 

And  see  our  red-birds  brighten  the 'air; 
Again  as  a  girl  I  shall  stray 

On  the  hills  where  the  snow-drops  grew, 

And  hear  the  wild  doves  in  the  dew. 

I  si  i;ill  feel  the  darkness  dripping  with  rain 
On  the  old  home-roof  ;  I  shall  see 

The  white  rose-bud  in  the  yard  again, 
And  the  sweet -brier  climbing  the  tree, 

With  its  pretty  young  blooms  that  fell 

Below  to  be  drown'd  in  the  well. 

And   sometimes   a  night,  with    blossoming 
hours 

In  a  crescent's  early  gleam, 
Will  let  a  Dream  flutter  out  of  its  flowers, 

With  no  oilier  name  but  a  Dream, 
To  my  breast,  with  a  timid  grace, 
And  wings  o'er  its,  blushing  face. 

Ah  !  you  smile   in  the  dark  ;  you  smile,  and 

refuse 

My  faith  in  these  sweet  faded  things  ; 
But  I  tell   you    I  know  that  my  soul  would 

lose 

One-half  of  the  strength  in  its  wings 
If  these  were   not  keeping  their  light, 
As  the  angels  in  Heaven,  to-ui^ht. 


LAST  WORDS. 


OVER    A   LITTLE   BED   AT    NIGHT. 


GOOD-NIGHT,  pretty  sleepers  of  mine — 

I  never  shall  see  you  again  : 
Ah,  never  in  shadow  nor  shine  ; 

Ah,  never  in  dew  nor  in  rain  ! 

In  your  small  dreaming-dresses  of  white, 
With  the  wild-bloom  you  gather'd  to-day 

In  your  quiet  shut  hands,  from  the  light 
And  the  dark  you  will  wander  away. 

Though  no  graves  in  the  bee-haunted  grass, 
And  no  love  in  the  beautiful  sky, 

Shall  take  you  as  yet,  you  will  pass, 

With  this  kiss,  through  these  tear-drops, 
Good- by  ! 

With  less  gold  and  more  gloom  in  their 
hair, 

When  the  buds  near  have  faded  to  flowers, 
Three  faces  may  wake  here  as  fair — 

But  older  than  yours  are,  by  hours  ! 

Good-night,  then,  lost  darlings  of  mine — 

I  never  shall  see  you  again-. 
Ah,  never  in  shadow  nor  shine  ; 

Ali,  never  in  dew  nor  in  rain  ! 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 

MAY  you  go  to  find  it  ?    You  must,  I  fear  ; 
Ah,  lighted  young  eyes,  could  I  show  you 

how 

"  Is  it  past  those  lilies  that  look  so  near  ?" 
It  is   past  all   flowers.     Will  you   listen, 
now  ? 

The  pretty  new  moons  faded  out  of  the  sky, 

The  bees  and  butterflies  out  of  the  air, 
And    sweet  wild   songs    would   flutter   and 

fly 

Into    wet    dark    leaves  and    the    snow's 
white  glare. 

There  were  winds  and  shells  full  of  lone 
some  cries, 
There    were   lightnings  and   mists    along 

the  way, 
And  the  deserts  would   glitter   against  my 

eyes, 

Where  the   beautiful   phantom-fountains 
play. 

At  last,  in  a  place  very  dusty  and  bare, 
Some   little    dead    birds    I   had   petted  to 

sing', 
Some  little  dead   flowers  I  had   gather'd  to 

wear, 
Some  wither'd  thorns  and  an  empty  ring, 

Lay  scatter'd.     My  fairy  story  is  told. 

(It    does    not   please    her :    she    has    not 

smiled.) 

What  is  it  you  say  ? — Did  I  find  the  gold  ? 
Why,  I  found  the  End  of  the  Rainbow, 
child ! 


MRS.    S.    M.    B.    PI  ATT. 


445 


TWO  BLUSH-ROSES. 


A  BLUSH-ROSE  lay  in  the  summer  ; 

There  were  golden  lights  in  the  sky, 
And  a  woman  saw  the  blossom 

As  she  stood  with  her  lover  nigh. 

A  band  in  the  flowering  distance 

Play'd  a  dreamy  Italian  air, 
Like  a  memory  changed  to  music, 

And  it  drifted  everywhere. 

'T  was  an  exiled  love  of  its  Southland, 

That  air,  and  its  delicate  wails 
Were  only  the  wandering  echoes 

Of,  the  songs  of  nightingales. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  tenderly  whisper'd  ; 

"  I  love  you,"  she  answer'd  as  low : 
And  the  music  grew  sweeter  and  sweeter, 

Because  it  had  listen'd,  I  know. 

But  she  look'd  at  the  rose  in  the  summer, 
And  said,  with  a  tremulous  tear, 

"  The  love  that  now  beat*  in  my  bosom 
Will  bloom  in  a  blush-rose  next  year." 

A  blush-rose  lay  in  the  summer  ; 

There  were  golden  lights  in  the  sky, 
And  a  woman  saw  the  blossom — 

As  she  stood  with  her  lover  nigh. 

The  band  in  the  flowering  distance 

Play'd  the  dreamy  Italian  air, 
Like  a  memory  changed  to  music, 

And  it  drifted  everywhere. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  tenderly  whisper'd  ; 

"  I  love  you,"  she  timidly  said  : 
And  the  music  grew  sadder  and  sadder, 

And  the  blush-rose   before  them  dropped 
dead. 

Then  he  knew  that  the  music  remember'd, 
And  knew  the  love  that  had  beat 

Last  year  in  her  beautiful  bosom 
Lay  dead  in  the  rose  at  his  feet. 


OF  A  PARTING. 


UNDER  a  calm  of  stars,  my  own, 
Under  a  drooping'  crescent  light, 

You  go,  while  fairy  sounds  are  blown 

Out  of  the  dreams  of  winds,  my  owrn — 
You  go  across  the  night ; 

But  on  some  far-off  strand  of  sunrise 
Our  hearts  meet  in  radiant  bliss, 
Not  damp,  like  this  ! 

You  go  ;  the  calm  of  stars  must  go, 
The  crescent  light,  the  fairy  sounds  ; 

Billows  of  cloud  will  overflow 

The  golden  skies  :  but  you  must,  go. 
And  in  its  stormy  rounds 

The  dark  will  hear  low,  fluttering  voices 
Cry  in  my  heart,  like  lonesome  birds, 
For  your  sweet  words. 

lou  go,  and  twilights  made  for  love 

Will  gloom  between  us,  dim  with  dew  ; 
The  spring-loosed  music  of  the  dove 
Will  search  the  emerald  woods  for  love, 


And  I  will  long  for  you, 
Among  the  blue  and  pearly  blossoms 
Far  on  the  mossy  hills,  alone, 
My  own,  my  own. 

But  you  must  loose  my  hands  and  go. 

Haste  with  those  tremulous  words  of  pain, 
For  I,  most  loved  of  all,  I  know 
(The  thought  is  full  of  tears)  some  go 

And  never  come  again  ; 
So  wait,  and  let  me  look  forever 
Into  the*  tenderness  that  lies 
In  those  deep  eyes. 

Ah  !  you  are  g'one  ;  and  I — I  hold 
My  vacant  arms  to  all  who  part, 

And  weep  for  them,  and  long  to  fold 

Those  strangers  close,  and  say  :  "  I  hold 
Your  sorrow  in  my  heart  ;  " 

But  look — the  calm  of  stars  is  o'er  us, 
And  we  go  toward  their  lighted  shore, 
And  part  no  more. 


A  DISENCHANTMENT. 


AND  thou  wast  but  a  breathing  May 

Embodied  by  delicious  dreams, 
And  drifted  o'er  my  wandering  way 

On  fancy's  swift  and  shining  streams. 
Thine  eyes  were  only  violets, 

Thy  lips  but  buds  of  crimson  bloom, 
Thy  hair,  coiled  sunshine — vain  regrets  ! 

Thy  soul,  a  brief  perfume. 

And  when  the  time  of  mists  and  chills 

Fell  where  the  sweet  wild  roses  gre  w, 
And  took  them  from  the  shadowy  hills, 

It  took  my  lovely  vision  too ; 
And  when  I  came  again  to  find 

The  charm  which  used  to  till  the  air, 
A  sorrow  struck  me  mute  and  blind — 

Thou  wast  not  anywhere  ! 

Yet  something  met  me  in  thy  place, 

Something,  they  said,  with  looks  like  thine, 
With  tresses  full  of  golden  grace 

And  lips  flush'd  red  with  beauty's  wine  ; 
With  voice  of  silvery  swells  and  falls 

And  dreamy  eyes  still  sweetly  blue — 
But,  then,  the  reptile's  nature  crawls 

Beneath  the  rainbow's  hue. 

Wroman,  all  things  below,  above, 

Look  pale  and  drear  and  glimmering  now, 
For  I  have  loved  thee  with  a  love 

Whose   passionate  deeps   such   things   as 

thou 
May  never  sound.     And,  with  a  moan, 

The  chill'd  tide  of  that  love  has  rolled 
Above  my  heart,  and  made  it  stone, 

And  oh,  so  cold,  so  cold  ! 

I  saw  thee  by  a  magic  lamp 

Wfhose  warm  and  gorgeous  blaze  is  gone 
And  o'er  me  shivers,  gray  and  damp, 

The  dimness  of  the  real's  dawn. 
Oh,  I  am  like  to  one  who  stands 

Where  late  a  vision  smiled  in  air, 
And  murmurs,  with,  outstretching  hands, 

"  Where  is  my  Angel — where  ?  " 


446 


MRS.  s.  M.  B.  PIATT. 


QUESTIONS  OF  THE  HOUR. 


"Do  angels  wear  white  dresses,  say? 

Always,  or  only  in  the  summer?     Do 
Their  l>irtlid:iv.s   have  to  come  like  mine,  in 
May  •: 

Do  they  have  scarlet  sashes  then,  or  blue? 

"When  little  Jessie  died  last  night, 

IIo\v  could  she  walk  to  Heaven — it  is  so 
far  ? 

How  did  she  find  the  way  without  a  light? 
There  was  n't  even  any  moon  or  star. 

"  Will  she  have  red  or  golden  wings? 

Then  will  she  have  to  be  a  bird,  and  fly  ? 
Do  tliev  take  men  like  presidents  and  king's 

In  hearses  with  black  plumes  clear  to  the 

sky  '! 

"  How  old  is  God  ?     Has  He  gray  hair  ? 
Can  He  see  yet  '>.     Where  did  He  have  to 

stay 

Before— you     know — he     had     made — Any 
where  Y 

Who  dot's    He  pray   to — when  He  has  to 
pray  V 

"  How  many  drops  are  in  the  sea? 

How    many     stars? \\ell,     then,    you 

ought  to  know 

How  many  flowers  are  on  an  apple-tree? 
How  does  the  wind  look  when  it  doesn't 
blow  •>. 

"  Where  does  the  rainbow  end  ?     And  why 
Did — Captain  Kidd — bury  the  gold  there? 

When  will  this  world  burn*?     And   will  the 

firemen  try 
To  put  the  fire  out  with  the  engines  then  ? 

"  If  you  should  ever  die,  may  we 

Have  pumpkins  growing  in  The  garden,  so 

My  fairy  go.lmother  can  come  for  me, 

When  there's  a  prince's  ball,  and  let  me  go? 

"  Read  Cinderella  just  once  more 

W  hat      makes — men's     other     wives — so 

mean  ?  "     I  know 

That  I  was  tired,   it  may  be  cross,  before 
I  shut  the  painted  book  for  her  to  go. 

Hours  later,  from  a  child's  white  bed 

I    heard   the   timid,    last   queer    question 

start  : 
"  Mamma,    art-    you— my     stepmother?"  it 

said. 
The  innocent  reproof  crept  to  my  heart. 


A  WALK  TO  MY  OWN  GRAVE. 
[WITH  THREE  CHILDREN.] 


Tn  I.KK  !  do  not  stop  to  cry. 

"  The  path  is  long?— we  walk  so  slow  ? 

But   we   shall  get  there  by  and  by. 
Kvery  step  that  we  go' 
Is  one  step   nearer,  you  know: 

And  your  mother's  grave  will  be 

Such  a  pretty  place  to  see. 


"  Will  there  b^  marble  there, 

With  doves,  or  lambs,  or  lilies  ?  "     No. 
Keep   white  yourselves.     Why  should  you 
care 

If  they  are  as  white  as  snow, 

When  the  lilies  can  not  blow, 
And  the  doves  can  never  moan, 
Nor  the  lambs  bleat — in  the  stone  ? 

You  want  some  flowers  f     Oh  ! 

We  shall  not  find  them  on  the  way. 
Only  a  few  brier-roses  grow, 

Here  and  there,  in  the  sun,  I  say. 

It  is  dusty  and  dry  all  day, 
But  at  evening  there  is  shade, 
And you  will  not  be  afraid  ? 

Ah.  the  flowers  f     Surely,  yes. 

At  the  end  there  will  be  a  few, 
"  Violets  ?     Violets  ?  "     So  I  guess, 

And  a  little  grass  and  dew  ; 

And  some  birds — you  want  them  blue  ? 
And  a  spring,  too,  as  I  think, 
Where  we  will  rest  and  drink. 

Now  kiss  me  and  be  good, 

For  you  can  go  back  home  and  play. 
This  is  my  grave  here  in  the  wood, 

Where  I,  for  a  while,  must  stay. 

Wait  — will  you  always  pray, 
Though  you  are  sleepy,  at  night  ? 
There  !  do  not  forget  me— quite. 

Keep  the  baby  sweetly  drest, 

And  give  him  milk  and  give  him  toys ; 
Rock  him,  as  I  did,  to  his  rest, 

And  never  make  any  noise. 

Brown-eyed  girl  and  blue-eyed  boys, 
Until  he  wakes.     Good -by, 
And do  not  stop  to  cry  ! 


ON  A  WEDDING  DAY. 

I  LOOK  far-off  across  the  blue, 

Still  distance  vague  with  woods  and  Spring, 
The  Earth  is  sweet  with  buds  and  dew; 

The  birds  their  early  carols  sing. 

I  look,  and  somehow  wish  the  hours 
Held  calm  and  sun  and  bloom  alone  : 

No  fallen  leaves,  no  wither'd  flowers, 
No  storm,  no  wreck,  no  mist,  no  moan  ; 

No  painted  palms  of  air  on  sand, 

No  poisons  where  the  spice-winds  blow, 

No  dark  shapes  haunting  sea  and  land — 
But  wherefore  am  1  dreaming  so? 

It  is  because  this  music  swells 

Across  the  lighted  April  day — 
Because  I  hear  your  bridal  bells, 

Fair  girl,  a  thousand  miles  away. 

Yes,  lovely  in  a  holy  place, 

Enchanted  by  my  dream  you  rise  : 

The  young  blush-roses  on   your  face, 
The  timid  darkness  in  your  eyes. 

And,  golden  on  vour  hand,  I  see 

The  glitter  of  n  sacred  thing: 
I  wish  some  Fairy,  friend,  may  be 

Slave  of  the  ring— your  wedding  ring  ! 


MKS.    LOUISE    CHANDLEK    MOULTOX. 


THE  SONG  OF  A  SUMMER. 

I  PLUCKED  an  apple  from  off  a  tree, 

Golden  and  rosy,  and  fair  to  see — 

The  sunshine  had  fed  it  with  warmth  and 

light— 

The  dews  had  freshened  it  night  by.  night, 
And  high  on  the  topmost  bough  it  grew, 
Where  the  winds  of  heaven  about  it  blew, 
And   while   the    mornings    were    soft    and 

young 
The    wild-birds    circled,    and    soared,    and 

sung — 

There,   in   the  storm,  and  calm,  and  shine, 
It    ripened   and   brightened,   this    apple   of 

mine, 

Till  the  day  I  plucked  it  from  off  the  tree, 
Golden  and  rosy,  and  fair  to  see. 

How   could   I  guess,    'neatli    that    daintiest 

rind, 

That  the  core  of  sweetness  I  hoped  to  find, — 
The  innermost  hidden  heart  of  the  bliss 
Which  dews  and  winds  and  the  sunshine's 

kiss 
Had    tendered    and    fostered    by   day    and 

night, — 
Was    black    with    mildew   and   bitter   with 

blight: 

Golden  and  rosy,  and  fair  of  skin, 
Nothing  but  ashes  and  ruin  within  ? 
Ah  !   never  again  with  toil  and  pain 
Will  I  strive  the  topmost  bough  to  gain — 
Though  its   wind-swung   apples  are  fair  to 

see, 
On  a  lower  branch  is  the  fruit  for  me. 


TO  MY  HEART. 

Ix  thy  long,    lonely   times,    poor    aching 

heart  ! 
When  days  are  slow,  and  silent  nights  are 

sad, 

Take  cheer,   weak  heart,  remember  and  be 
glad, 

For  some  one  loved  thee. 

Some  one,  indeed,  who  cared  for  fading 

face, 
For   time-touched   hair,   and    weary-falling 

arm, 

And  in  thy  very  sadness  found  a  charm 
To  make  him  love  thee. 

God  knc'As  thy   days   are  desolate,   poor 

heart ! 

As  thou  dost  sit  alone,  and  dumbly  wait 
For  what  comes  not,  or   comes,    alas  !    too 
late, 

But  some  one  loved  thee. 


Take  cheer,  poor  heart,  remembering  what 

he  said, 
And  how  of  thy  lost  youth  he  missed   no 

grace, 

But  saw  some  subtler  beauty  in  thy  face, 
So  well  he  loved  thee. 

It  may  be,   on   Time's  farther  shore,   the 

dead 
Love  the  sweet  shades  of  those  they  missed 

on  this, 

And  dream,  in  heavenly  rest,  of  earth's  lost 
bliss — 

So  he  shall  love  thee. 

Till  then  take  cheer,  poor,  silent,  aching 

heart ; 
Content  thee  with  the  face  he  once  found 

fair, 

Mourn  not  for  fading  bloom,  or  time-touched 
hair, 

Since  he  hath  loved  thee. 


THE  SPRING  IS  LATE. 


SHE  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields — 
Brown,    sodden    fields,    all   desolate    and 

bare — 

•''  The  spring  is  late,"  she  said — "  the  faith 
less  spring, 

That  should  have  come  to  make  the  mea 
dows  fair. 

"Their  sweet  South  left  too  soon,    among 

the  trees 

The  birds,  bewildered,  flutter,  to  and  fro; 
For  them  no  green  boughs  wait — their  mem 
ories 
Of  last  year's  April  had  deceived  them  so. 

"  Beneath   a   sheltering   pine    some   tender 

buds 
Looked   out,   and   saw  the  hollows  filled 

with  snow  ; 
On  such  a  frozen  world  they  closed    their 

eyes ; 

When  spring  is  cold,  how  can  the  blossoms 
blow  ?  " 

She   watched  the  homeless  birds,  the  slow, 

sad  spring, 
The  barren  fields,  and    shivering,    naked 

trees : 
"Thus  God  has  dealt   with  me,  his  child," 

she  said — 

"  I  wait  my  spring-time,    and   am     cold 
like  these. 


448 


M  R  S .  L  O  U  I  S  E    C II A  X  D  L  E  R    M  0  U  L  T  0  X  . 


"  To  them   will  come  the  fulness  of   their 

time  ; 
Their  spring,   though  late,  will  make  the 

meadows  fair; 
Shall  I,  who  wait  like  them,  like  them  be 

blessed? 
I  am  His  own — doth  not  my  Father  care  ?  " 


A  WOMAN'S  WAITING. 


the  apple-tree  blossoms,  in  May, 
ANY    sat   and   watched   as    the   sun   went 

down  ; 
Behind  us  the   road  stretched  back  to   the 

cast, 

On,    through  the   meadows,  to    Danbury 
town. 

Silent  we  sat,  for  our  hearts  were  full, 
Silently  Watched  the  reddening  sky, 

And  saw  the  clouds  across  the  west 

Like  the  phantoms  of  ships  sail  silently. 

Robert  had  come  with  a  story  to  tell, 

I  knew  it  before  he  had  said  a  word  — 
It  looked  from  his  eye,  and  it  shadowed  his 

face  — 

He  was  going  to  march  with  the  Twenty- 
third. 

We  had  been  neighbors  from  childhood  up  — 
Gone  to  school  by  the  self-same  way, 

Climbed  the  same  steep  woodland  paths, 
Knelt  in  the  same  old  church  to  pray. 

We  had  wandered  together,  boy  and  girl, 
Where  wild  flowers  grew  and  wild  grapes 
hung  ; 

Tasted  the  sweetness  of  summer  days 
When  hearts  are  true  and  life  is  young. 

But  never  a  love-  word  had  crossed  his  lips, 

Never  a  hint  of  pledge  or  vow, 
Until,  as  the  pun  went  down  that  night, 

His  tremulous  kisses  touched  my  brow. 

"  Jenny,"  he  said,  "  I've  a  work  to  do 
For  God  and  my  conntiy  and  the  right— 

True  hearts,  strong  arms,  are  needed  now, 
I  dare  not  stay  away  from  the  fight. 

"Will   you  give  me  a  pledge  to  cheer  me 

on  — 

A  hope  to  look  forward  to  by-and-by  ? 
Will  you  wait  for  me,    Jennv,    till   i  come 

back?" 
"  I  will  wait,"  I  answered,  "  until  I  die." 

The   May  moon   rose   as   we    walked    that 

night 
Back-  through  the  meadows   to   Danbury 

town, 

And  one  stnr  rose  and  shone  by  her  side  — 
Calmly    and    sweetly    they*  both    looked 

down. 

The  scent  of  blossoms  was  in  the  air, 

Tin-  sky  was  blue  and  the  eve  was  bright, 

And  Robert  said,  as  he  walked  by  my  side, 
"  Old  Danbury  town  is  fair  to-night. 


"  I  shall  think  of  it,  Jenny,  when  far  away, 
Placid  and  still  'neath  the  moon  as  now — 

I  shall  see  it,  darling,  in  many  a  dream, 
And    you    with    ihe   moonlight    on    your 
brow." 

Xo    matter    what     else    were    his    parting 
words — 

They  are  mine  to  treasure  until  I  die, 
With  the  clinging  kisses  and  lingering  looks, 

The  tender  pain  of  that  fond  good-by. 

I  did  not  weep — 1  tried  to  be  brave — 

I  watched  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight — 

Then  suddenly  all  the  world  grew  dark, 
And  I  was  blind  in  the  bright  May  night. 

Blind  and  helpless  I  slid  to  the  ground 

And  lay  with  the  night -dews  on  my  hair, 
Till  the  moon  was  down,  and  the  dawn  was 

up, 

And  the  fresh  May  morn   rose  clear  and 
fair. 

He  was  taken  and  I  was  left — 

Left  to  wait  and  to  watch  and  pray — 

Till  there  came  a  message  over  the  wires, 
Chilling  the  air  of  the  August  day. 

Killed  in  a  skirmish  eight  or  ten — 

Wounded  and  helpless  as  many  more — 

All  of  them  our  Connecticut  men — 
From  the  little  town  of  Danbury,  four. 

But  I  only  saw  a  single  name — 

Of  one 'who  was  all  the  w  >rld  tome 

I  promised  to  wait  for  him  till  I  died — 
Oh  God,  O  Heaven,  how  long  will  it  be? 


THE  SINGER. 

WITHIX  the  crimson  gloom 
Of  that  dim,  shaded  room 

I  heard  a  singer  sing. 

She  sang  of  life  and  death, 
Of  joys  that  end  with  breath, 

And  joys  the  end  doth  brin^  ; 

Of  passion's  bitter  pain, 

And  memory's  tears  like  rain, 

Which  will  not  ccate  to  flow  ; 

Of  the  deep  grave's  delights, 
Where  through  long  days  and  nights 

They  hear  the  green  things  grow, 

Cool -rooted  flowers,  which  come 
So  near  to  that  still  home, 

Their  ways  the  dead  must  know, 

And  shivers  in  the  grass, 
When  winds  of  summer  pass, 
And  whisper  as  they  go, 

Of  the  mad  life  above, 

Where  men  like  masquers  move  ; 

Or  are  they  ghosts — who  knows  ?- 

Sad  ghosts  who  cannot  die, 
And  watch  slow  years  go  by 

Amid  those  painted  show- — 


MRS.    LOUISE    CHANDLER    MOULTON. 


449 


Who  knows  ?  For  on  her  tongue 
What  never  may  be  sung 

Seemed  trembling,  and  we  wait 

To  catch  the  strain  'complete, 
More  full,  but  not  more  sweet, 
Beyond  the  golden  gate. 


A  WEED. 

How  shall  a  little  weed  grow 

That  has  no  sun  ? 
Rains  fall  and  north  winds  blow — 

What  shall  be  clone  ? 

Out  come  some  little  pale  leaves 

At  the  spring's  call, 
But  the  harsh  north  winds  blow, 

And  the  sad  rains  fall. 

Dost  try  to  keep  it  warm 

With  fickle  breath  ? 
He  must,  who  would  give  life, 

Be  Lord  of  death. 

Some  day  you  forget  the  weed — 
Man's  thoughts  are  brief — 

And  your  coldness  steals  like  frost 
Through  each  pale  leaf, 

Till  the  weed  shrinks  back  to  die 

On  kinder  sod ; 
Shall  a  life  which  found  no  sun, 

In  death  find  God  ? 


HOW  LONG  ? 

IF    on    my  grave   the  summer  grass  were 

growing, 

Or  heedless  winter  winds  across  i  blowing, 
Through  joyous  June,  or  desolate  December, 
How  long,  sweetheart,  how  long'  \vould  you 

remember, — 

How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 

For  brightest  eyes  would  open   to  the  sum 
mer, 

And  sweetest  smiles   would  greet  the  sweet 
new-comer, 

And  on  your  lips  grow  kisses  for  the  taking, 

When  all  the  summer  buds  to  bloom   are 
breaking, — 

How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 

To  the  dim  land  where  sad-eyed  ghosts  walk 

only, 
Where  lips  are  cold,  and  waiting  hearts  are 

lonely, 
I  would  not  call  you  from  your  youth's  warm 

blisses, 
Fill  up  your  glass  and  crown  it  with   new 

kisses, — 

How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 

Too  gay,  in  June,  you  might  be  to  regret  me, 

And  living  lip*  might  woo  you  to  forget  me  ; 

But  ah,  sweetheart,  I  think  you  would  re 
member 

When  winds  were  weary  in  your  life's  De 
cember, — 

So  long,  dear  love,  so  long. 


A  PROBLEM. 

MY  darling  has  a  merry  eye, 

And  voice  like  silver  bells : 
How  shall  I  win  her,  prithee,  say — 

By  what  magic  spells  ? 

If  I  frown  she  shakes  her  head, 

If  I  weep  she  smiles  ; 
Time  would  fail  me  to  recount 

All  her  wilful  wiles. 

She  flouts  me  so  — she  stings  me  so — 

Yet  will  not  let  me  stir — 
In  vain  I  try  to  pass  her  by, 

My  little  chestnut  bur. 

When  I  yield  to  every  whim 

She  strait  begins  to"  pout. 
Teach  me  how  to  read  my  love, 

How  to  find  her  out  ! 

For  flowers  she  gives  me  thistle  blooms — 

Her  turtle  doves  are  crows — 
I  am  the  groaning  weather-vane, 

And  she  the  wind  that  blows. 

My  little  love  !     My  teazing  love  ! 

Was  woman  made  for  man — 
A  rose  that  blossomed  from  his  side  ? 

Believe  it — those  who  can. 

/went  to  sleep — I'm  sure  of  it — 

Some  luckless  summer  morn ; 
A  rib  was  taken  from  my  side, 

And  of  it  made  a  thorn. 

But  still  I  seek  by  some  fond  art 

To  link  it  to  my  life, 
Come,  solve  my  problem,  married  men  : 

Teach  me  to  win  my  wife. 


MAY-FLOWERS. 


IF  you  catch  a  breath  of  sweetness, 

And  follow  the  odorous  hint 
Through    woods    where    the    dead     leaves 
rustle, 

And  the  golden  mosses  glint, 

Along  the  spicy  sea-coast, 

Over  the  desolate  down, 
You  will  find  the  dainty  May-flowers 

When  you  come  to  Plymouth  town. 

Where  the  shy  Spring  tends  her  darlings, 
And  hides  them  away  from  sight, 

Pull  oft'  the  covering  leaf-sprays, 
And  gather  them  pink  and  wrhite, 

Tinted  by  mystical  moonlight, 

Freshened  by  frosty  dew, 
Till  the  fair,  transparent  blossoms 

To  their  pure  perfection  grew. 

Then  carry  them  home  to  your  lady, 
For  flower  of  the  spring  is  she, — 

Pink  and  white,  and  dainty  and  slight, 
And  lovely  as  lovely  can  be. 

Shall  they  die  because  she  is  fair, 

Or  live  because  she  is  sweet  ? 
They  will  know  for  which  they  were  born, 

But  von — must  wait  at  her  feet. 


MRS.    CELIA     TIIAXTEK. 


EXPECTATION. 


THROUGHOUT  the   lonely  house  the  whole 

day  long 
-  The    wind-harp's   fitful   music   sinks  and 

swells, — 

A  cry  of  pain,  sometimes,  or  sad  and  strong, 
Or  faint,  like  broken  peals  of  silver  bells. 

Across  the  little  garden  comes  the  breeze, 
Bows  all  its  cups  of  flame,  and  brings  to 

me 
Its  breath  of  mignonette  and  bright  sweet 

peas, 
With  drowsy  murmurs  from  the  encircling 

sea. 
In  at  the  open  door  a  crimson  drift 

Of  fluttering,    fading  woodbine  leaves  is 

blown, 

And  through  the  clambering  vine  the  sun 
beams  sift, 

And   trembling  shadows  on  the  floor  are 
thrown. 

I  climb  the  stair,  and  from  the  window  lean 
Seeking  thy  sail,  0  love,  that  still  delays  ; 

Longing  to  catch  its  glimmer,  searching  keen 
The  jealous  distance  veiled  in  tender  haze. 

What  care  I  if  the  pansies  purple  be, 

Or  sweet  the  wind-harp  wails  through  the 

slow  hours  ; 
Or  that  the  lulling  music  of  the  sea 

Comes   woven  with   the   perfume  of   the 
flowers? 

Thou  comest  not !  I  ponder  o'er  the  leaves, 
The  crimson  drift  behind  the  open  door  : 

Soon  shall  we  listen  to  a  wind  that  grieves, 
Mourning  this   glad   year,    dead  forever- 
more. 

And,  0  my  love,  shall  we  on  some  sad  day 
Find  joVs  and  hopes  low  fallen  like  the 

leaves, 

Blown  by  life's  chilly  autumn  wrind  away 
In    withered   heaps  God's  eye  alone  per 
ceives  ? 

Come   thou,  and  save  me  from  my  dreary 

thought ! 
Who  dares  to  question  Time,  what  it  may 

bring'.' 
Yet    round   us    lies    the    radiant    summer, 

fraught 
Wit  h  beauty :  must  we  dream  of  suffering  ? 

Yea,  even  so.  Through  this  enchanted  land, 
This  morning-red  of  life,  we  go  to  meet 

The  tempest  in  the  desert,  hand  in  han;l, 
Along  (Joel's  paths   of  pain,  that  seek  His 
feet. 


But  this  one  golden  moment, — hold  it  fast  ! 

The  light  grows  long  :  low  in  the  west  the 

sun, 
Clear  red  and  glorious,  slowly  sinks  at  last, 

And  while  I  muse,  the  tranquil  day  is  done. 

The  land  breeze  freshens  in  thy  gleaming 

sail  1 
Across   the   singing   waves    the    shadows 

creep : 

Under  the  ne\v  moon's  thread  of  silver  pale, 
With  the  first  star,  thou  comest  o'er  the 
deep  ! 

THE  SANDPIPER. 


ACROSS  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky  ; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out  the  white  light-houses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close- reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along 

Lettering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 
lie  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong  ; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye. 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously  '? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright ! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  Jiy  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky  : 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  1  V 


THE  MINUTE-GUNS. 


I  STOOD  within  the  little  cove, 

Full  of  the  morning's  life  and  hope, 

While  heavily  the  eager  waves 

Charged  thundering  up  the  rocky  slope. 


MBS.    CELIA    THAXTER. 


451 


The  splendid  breakers  !     How  they  rushed, 
All  emerald  green  and  flashing  white. 

Tumultuous  in  the  morning  sun, 

With  cheer  and  sparkle  and  delight ! 

And  freshly  blew  the  fragrant  wind, 
The  wild  sea  wind,  across  their  tops, 

And  caught  the  spray  and  flung  it  far 
In  sweeping  showers  of  glittering  drops. 

Within  the  cove  all  flashed  and  foamed 
With  many  a  fleeting  rainbow  hue  ; 

Without,  gleamed  bright  against  the  sky, 
A  tender  wavering  line  of  blue, 

Where  tossed  the  distant  wraves,  and  far 
Shone  silver-white  a  quiet  sail ; 

And  overhead  the  soaring  gulls 

With  graceful  pinions  stemmed  the  gale. 

And  all  my  pulses  thrilled  with  joy, 

Watching  the  winds'  and  waters'  strife, 

With  sudden  rapture, — and  I  cried, 

"  O  sweet  is  Life  !     Thank  God  for  life  ! ' 

Sailed  any  cloud  across  the  sky, 
Marring  this  glory  of  the  sun's  ? 

Over  the  sea,  from  distant  forts, 

There  came  the  boom  of  minute-guns  ! 

War-tidings !     Many  a  brave  soul  fled, 
And  many  a  heart  the  message  stuns  ! 

I  saw  no  more  the  joyous  waves, 
I  only  heard  the  minute-guns. 


ROCK  WEEDS. 

So  bleak  these  shores,   wind-swept  and  all 

the  year 
Washed    by  the  wild   Atlantic's    restless 

tide, 
You  would  not  dream  that  flowers  the  woods 

hold  dear 
Amid  such  desolation  dare  abide. 

Yet  when  the  bitter  winter  breaks,  some  day, 
With  soft  winds  fluttering  her  garments' 

hem, 

Up  from  the  sweet  South  comes  the  linger 
ing  May, 

Sets  the  first  wind-flower  trembling  on  its 
stem  ; 

Scatters  her  violets  with  lavish  hands, 
White,  blue,  and  amber  ;  calls  the  colum 
bine, 
Till    like   clear  flame   in  lonely  nooks,  gay 

bands 
Swinging  their  scarlet  bells,  obey  the  sign ; 

Makes  buttercups  and  dandelions  blaze, 
And  throws  in  glimmering  patches  here 
and  there 

The  little  eyebright's  pearls,  and  gently  lays 
The  impress  of  her  beauty  everywhere. 

Later,  June  bids  the  sweet  wild  rose  to  blow, 
Wakes  from  its  dream  the  drowsy  pim 
pernel  ; 

L^nfolds  the  bindweed's  ivory  buds  that  glow 
As  delicately  blushing  as  a  shell. 


Then  purple  Iris  smiles,  and  hour  by  hour, 
The  fair  procession  multiplies  ;  and  soon, 

In  clusters  creamy  white,  the  elder-flower 
Waves  its  broad  disk  against  the  rising 
moon. 

O'er  quiet  beaches  shelving  to  the  sea 

Tall  mulleins  sway,  and  thistles  ;  all  day 
long 

Flows  in  the  wooing  water  dreamily, 

"With  subtle  music  in  its  slumberous  song. 

Herb-robert    hears,     and    princess'  -  feather 

bright, 
And  gold-thread  clasps  the  little  skull-cap 

blue  ;  • 

And  troops  of  swallows,  gathering  for  their 

flight, 
O'er  golden-rod  and  asters  hold  review. 

The  barren  island  dreams  in  flowers,  while 

blow 
The  south  winds,  drawing  haze  o'er  sea 

and  land  ; 

Yet  the  great  heart  of  ocean,  throbbing  slow, 
Makes  the   frail  blossoms  vibrate  where 
they  stand  ; 

And  hints  of  heavier  pulses  soon  to  shake 
Its  mighty  breast  when  summer  is  no  more, 

And  devastating  waves  sweep  on  and  break, 
And  clasp  with  girdle  white  the  iron  shore. 

Close  folded,  safe  within  the  sheltering  seed, 
Blossom  and  bell  and  leafy  beauty  hide  ; 

Nor  icy  blast,  nor  bitter  spray  they  heed, 
But'  patiently     their     wondrous    change 
abide. 

The  heart  of  God  through  his  creation  stirs, 
We  thrill  to  feel  it,  trembling  as  the  flowers 

That  die  to  live  again, — his  messengers, 
To  keep  faith  firm   in  these  sad  souls  of 
ours. 

The  waves  of  Time  may  devastate  our  lives, 
The  frosts  of  age  may   check  our  failing 

breath, 

They  shall  not  touch  the  spirit  that  survives 
Triumphant    over   doubt    and    pain    and 
death. 


A  SUMMER  DAY. 

AT  day-break  in  the  fresh  light,  joyfully 
The'  fishermen  drew  in  their  laden  net  ; 

The  shore  shone  rosy  purple  and  the  sea 
Was  streaked  with  violet  ; 

And  pink  with  sunrise,  many  a  shadowy  sail 
Lay   southward,  lighting  up  the  sleeping 

bay  ; 
And  in*  the  west  the  white  moon,  still  and 

pale, 
Faded  before  the  day. 

Silence  was  everywhere.  The  rising  tide 
Slowly  filled  every  cove  and  inlet  small ; 

A  musical  low  whisper,  multiplied, 
You  heard,  and  that  was  all. 


MRS.    CELIA    THAXTER. 


No  clouds  at  dawn,  but  as  the  sun  climbed 

higher, 
White  columns,  thunderous,  splendid,  up 

the  sky 

Floated  and  stood,  heaped  in  his  steady  fire. 
A  stately  company. 

Stealing  along  the  coast  from  cape  to  cape 
The  weird  mirage  crept  tremulously  on, 

In  many  a  magic  change  and  wondrous  shape, 
Throbbing  beneath  the  sun. 

At  noon   the  wind  rose,  swept  the  glassy  sea 
To  sudden  ripple,  thrust  against  the  clouds 
A  strenuous  shoulder,  gathering  steadily 
.Drove  them  before  in  crowds  ; 

Till  all  the  west  was  dark,  and  inky  black 

The  level-ruffled  water  underneath, 
And  up  the  wind   cloud  tossed, — a  ghostly 

rack, 

In  many  a  ragged  wreath. 
Then    sudden    roared  the   thunder,  a  great 

peal 

Magnificent,  that  broke  and  rolled  away  ; 
And  down  the  wind  plunged,  like  a  furious 

keel, 
Cleaving  the  sea  to  spray  ; 

And  brought   the   rain   sweeping  o'er  land 

and  sea. 
And  then  was  tumult !      Lightning   sharp 

and  keen, 

Thunder,  wind,  rain, — a  mighty  jubilee 
The  heaven  and  earth  between  ! 

Loud  the  roused  ocean  sang,  a  chorus  grand  ; 

A  solemn  music  rolled  in  undertone 
Of  waves  that  broke  about  on  either  hand 

The  little  island  lone  ; 

Where,  joyful  in  His  tempest  as  His  calm, 
Held  in  the  hollow  of  that  hand  of  His, 

I  joined  with  heart  and  soul  in  God's  great 

psalm, 
Thrilled  with  a  nameless  bliss. 

Soon  lulled  the  wind,  the  summer  storm  soon 

died  ; 

The  shattered  clouds  went  eastward,  drift 
ing  slow ; 
From   the   low   sun   the   rain- fringe    swept 

aside, 
Bright  in  his  rosy  glow, 

And  wide  a  splendor  streamed  through  all 
the  sky; 

O'er  sea  and  land  one  soft,  delicious  blush, 
That  touched  the  gray  rocks  lightly,  tenderly; 

A  transitory  flush. 

Warm,  odorous  gusts   blew  off  the  distant 

land. 
With  spice  of  pine-woods,  breath  of  hay 

new-mown, 
O'er  miles  of  waves  and  sea,  scents  cool  and 

bland, 
Full  in  our  faces  blown. 

Slow  faded  the  sweet  light,  and  peacefully 
The  quiet  stars  came  out,  one  after  one  : 

The  holy  twilight  fell  upon  the  sea, 
The  summer  day  Avas  done. 


Such  unalloyed  delight  its  hours  had  given, 
Musing,  this  thought,  rose  in  my  grateful 

mind, 
That  God,  who  watches   all  things,  up  in 

heaven, 
With  patient  eyes  and  kind, 

Saw  and  was  pleased,  perhaps,  one  child  of 
his 

Dared  to  be  happy  like  the  little  birds, 
Because  He  gave  his  children  days  like  this 

Rejoicing  beyond  words  ; 

Dared,  lifting  up  to  Him  untroubled  eyes 
In  gratitude  that  worship  is,  and  prayer, 

Sing  and  be  glad  with  ever  new  surprise, 
He  made  his  world  so  fair  ! 


NOVEMBER. 


THERE  is  no  wind  at  all  to-night 
To  dash  the  drops  against  the  pane  ; 

No  sound  abroad,  nor  any  light, 
And  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain  ; 

There  is  no  color  in  the  world, 
No  lovely  tint  on  hill  or  plain  ; 

The  summer's  golden  sails  are  furled, 
And  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain. 

The  Earth  lies  tacitly  beneath, 
As  it  were  dead  to  joy  or  pain  : 

It  does  not  move,  it  does  not  breathe, — 
And  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain. 

And  all  my  heart  is  patient  too, 
I  wait  till  it  shall  wake  again  ; 

The  songs  of  spring  shall  sound  an£w, 
Though  sadly  falls  the  autumn  rain. 

YELLOW-BIRD. 


YELLOW-BIRD,  where    did  you    learn  that 

song, 
Perched  on  the  trellis  where  grape-vines 

clamber, 
In  and  out  fluttering,  all  day  long, 

With  your  golden   breast  bedropped  with 
amber  ? 

Where  do  you  hide  such  a  store  of  delight, 
O  delicate  creature,  tiny  and  slender, 

Like  a  mellow  morning  sunbeam  bright, 
And  overflowing  with  music  tender  ! 

You  never  learned  it  at  all,  the  song 

Springs  from  your  heart  in  rich  complete 
ness, 

Beautiful,  blissful,  clear  and  strong, 

Steeped  in  the  summer's  ripest  sweet  nes?. 

To  think  we  are  neighbors  of  yours  !  How 
fine! 

Oh  what  a  pleasure  to  watch  you  together, 
Bringing  your  fern-down  and  floss  to  re-line 

The  nest  worn  thin  by  the  winter  weather! 

Send   up   your   full   notes  like    worshipful 

prayers ; 

Yellow-bird,  sing  while  the  summer's  be 
fore  you  ; 

Little  you  dream  that,  in  spite  of  their  cares, 
Here's  a  whole  family,  proud  to  adore  you  ! 


MKS.    ADELINE    D.    T.    WHITNEY. 


PER  TEXEBRAS,  LUMINA. 

I  KNOW  how,  through  the  golden  hours 
When  summer  sunlight  floods  the  deep, 

The  fairest  stars  of  all  the  heaven 
Climb  up,  unseen,  the  effulgent  steep. 

Orion  girds  him  with  a  flame  ; 

And  king-like,  from  the  eastward  seas 
Comes  Aldebaran,  with  his  train 

Of  Evades  and  Pleiades. 

In  far  meridian  pride,  the  Twins 

Build,  side  by  side,  their  luminous  thrones 

And  Sirius  and  Procyon  pour 
A  splendor  that  the  day  disowns. 

And  stately  Leo,  undismayed, 

With  fiery  footstep  tracks  the  sun, 

To  plunge  adown  the  western  blaze, 
Sublimely  lost  in  glories  won. 

I  know  if  I  were  called  to  keep 

Pale  morning-watch  with  grief  and  pain, 
Mine  eyes  should  see  their  gathering  might 

Rise  grandly  through  the  gloom  again. 

And  when  the  winter  Solstice  holds 
In  his  diminished  path  the  sun  ; 

When  hope  and  growth  and  joy  are  o'er, 
And  all  our  harvesting  is  done  ; 

When,  stricken  like  our  mortal  life, 

Darkened  and  chill,  the  Year  lays  down 

The  summer  beauty  that  she  wore, 
Her  summer  stars  of  harp  and  crown  ; 

Thick  trooping  with  their  golden  tread, 
They  come  as  nightfall  fills  the  sky,  — 

Those  stronger,  grander  sentinels, — 
And  mo  ant  resplendent  guard  on  high  ! 

Ah,  who  shall  shrink  from  dark  and  cold, 
Or  dread  the  sad  and  shortening  days, 

When  God  doth  only  so  unfold 
A  wider  glory  to  our  gaze  ? 

When  loyal  truth  and  holy  trust, 
And  kingly  strength,  defying  pain, 

Stern  courage,  and  sure  brotherhood 
Are  born  from  out  the  depths  again  ? 

Dear  country  of  our  love  and  pride  ! 

So  is  thy  stormy  winter  given  ! 
So,  through  the  terrors  that  betide, 

Look  up,  and  hail  thy  kindling  heaven  ! 


BEHIND  THE  MASK. 

IT  was  an  old,  distorted  face, — 
^  An  uncouth  visage,  rough  and  wild, — 
Yet,  from  behind,  with  laughing  grace, 
Peeped  the  fresh  beauty  of  a  child. 


And  so,  contrasting  strange  to-day, 
My  heart  of  youth  doth  inly  ask 

If  half  earth's  wrinkled  grimness  may 
Be  but  the  baby  in  the  mask. 

Behind  gray  hairs  and  furrowed  brow 
And  withered  look  that  life  puts  on, 

Each,  as  he  wears  It,  comes  to  know 
How  the  child  hides,  and  is  not  gone. 

For  while  the  inexorable  years 

To  saddened  features  fit  their  mould, 

Beneath  the  work  of  time  and  tears 

Waits  something  that  will  not  grow  old  ! 

The  rifted  pine  upon  the  hill, 

Scarred  by  the  lightning  and  the  wind, 
Through  bolt  and  blight  doth  nurture  still 

Young  fibres  underneath  the  rind  ; 

And  many  a  storm-blast,  fiercely  sent, 
And  wasted  hope,  and  sinful  stain, 

Roughen  the  strange  integument 

The  struggling  soul  must  wear  in  pain  ; 

Yet  when  she  comes  to  claim  her  own, 
Heaven's  angels,  haply,  shall  not  ask 

For  that  last  look  the  world  hath  known, 
But  for  the  face  behind  the  mask  ! 


LARVAE. 


MY  little  maiden  of  four  years  old — 
No  myth,  but  a  genuine  child  is  she, 

With  her  bronze-brown  eyes  and  her  curls 

of  gold — 
Came,  quite  in  disgust,  one  day,  to  me. 

Rubbing  her  shoulder  with  rosy  palm, 
As  the   loathsome   touch    seemed   yet    to 
thrill  her, 

She  cried,  "  O  mother  !  I  found  on  my  arm 
A  horrible,  crawling  caterpillar  !  "  ' 

And     with    mischievous     smile    she    could 

scarcely  smother, 
Yet  a  glance  in  its  daring  half  awed  and 

shy, 
She   added,    "While   they  were    about    it, 

mother, 
I  wish  they  'd  just  finished  the  butterfly  !  " 

They  were  words  to  the  thought  of  the  soul 

that  turns 

From  the  coarser  form  of  a  partial  growth, 
Reproaching  the  infinite  patience  that  yearns 
With   an   unknown  glory  to  crown  them 
both. 

Ah,  look  thou  largely,  with  lenient  eyes, 
On  whatfo  beside  thee  may  creep  and  cling, 


MRS.    ADELINE    D.    T.    WHITNEY. 


For  the  possible  <j.lory  that  underlies 

The  passing  phase  of  the  meanest  tiling! 

What  if  God's   great    angels,  whose  \vsiit in^- 
love 

Beholdcth  our  pitiful  life  below, 
From  tlie  holy  height  of  their  heaven  above, 
Could    n't    bear    with    the    worm  till   the 
wings  should  grow  ''. 


NORTHEAST. 

WE  had  a  week  of  rainy  days  ; 

The  heaven  was  gray,  the  earth  was  grim  ; 
And  through  a  sea  of  hopeless  haze 

The  dreamy  daylight  wandered  dim. 

The  saddened  trees,  with  weary  boughs, 
Drooped  heavily,  or  sullen  swayed 

Slow  answer  to  the  sobs  and  soughs 

The  jaded  east- wind,  whimpering,  made. 

Faint  as  the  dawn  the  noonday  seemed, 
With  hardly  more  of  stir  or  sound  ; 

The  only  noise  or  motion  seemed 

That  dull,  cold  dropping  on  the  ground. 

Vainly  the  Soul  her  frame  ignores  ; 

Deep  answereth  unto  deep  apart  ; 
And  the  great  weeping  out  of  doors 

Touched  the  tear  fountains  in  the  heart. 

So  life  looked  drear,  and  heaven  was  dim ; 

And  though  the  Sun  still  strode  the  sky, 
Through  the  thick  gloom  that  shrouded  him 

Scarce  trusted  we  the  joy  on  high. 

But,  sudden,  from  the  leafy  dark, — 
The  close  green  covert  rain-bestirred, — 

Outburst'mg  tremulously,  hark, 
The  carol  of  a  little  bird  ! 

Ali.  long  the  storm  ;  yet  none  the  less, 
Hid  from  the  utmost  reach  of  ill, 

And  singing  in  the  wilderness, 

Some    small,    sweet    hope    waits    blithely 
still  ! 

RELEASED. 

A  LITTLE,  low-ceiled  room.     Four  walls 
Whose  blank  >\\\\\  out  all  else  of  life, 

And  crowded  close  within  their  bound 
A  world  of  pain,  and  toil,  and  strife. 

Her  world.     Scarce  furthermore  .she  knew 

Of  God's  great  globe  that  woudrously 
Outrolls  a  glory  of  green  earth 

And  frames  it  with  the  rot  less  sea. 

Four  closer  walls  of  common  pine  ; 

And  therein  lying,  cold  and  still, 
The  weary  flesh  that  long  hath  borne 

Its  patient  mystery  of  ill. 

Regardless  now  of   work  to  do, 

No  queen  more  careless  in  her  slate, 

Hands  crossed  in  an  unbroken  calm; 
For  other  hands  the  work  may  wait. 

Put  by  her  implements  of  toil  ; 

Put  by  each  coarse,  intrusive  sign; 
She  made  a  Sabbath  when  she  died, 

And  round  her  breatlu  s  a  rest  divine. 


Put  by,  at  last,  beneath  the  lid, 

The  exempted  hands,  the  tranquil  face  ; 

Uplift  her  in  her  dreamless  sleep, 
And  bear  her  gently  from  the  place. 

Oft  she  hath  ga/ed,  with  wistful  eyes, 
Out  from  that  threshold  on  .the  night ; 

The  narrow  bourn  she  crosseth  now  ; 
She  standeth  in  the  eternal  light. 

Oft  she  hath  pressed,  with  aching  feet, 
Those  broken  steps  that  reach  the  door ; 

Henceforth,  with  angels,  she  shall  trea'd 
Heaven's  golden  stair,  forevermore  ! 


BEAUTY  FOR  ASHES. 

WE  have  no  glory  of  the  woods  this  year ! 
The  Summer  lieth  dead  upon  her  bier, 
And  parched  and  brown,  with  faint  and  tiut- 

tering  fall, 
Gaunt  arms  drop  down  her  melancholy  pall. 

Like  some  remorseful  spirit  she  hath  gone, 
Finding  no  wedding  garment  to  put  on  ; 
From  fever  dropt  to  silence  ;  day  by  day, 
Her  green  hope  lost, — so  perishing  away. 

All  passion-burned  were  her  meridian  hours, 
Untouched  by  any  tenderness  of  showers: 
Too  late  the  wild  winds  and  the  penitent  rain 
Vex  the  dead  days  that  are  not  born  again. 

So  said  we  in  the  early  autumn-time, 
Missing  the  red  leaf  and  the  golden  prime  ; 
And  still  the  raiii   fell   with  sweet,    patient 

woe, 
Like  heart  sin-broken,  that  can  only  so. 

Then  there  befell  a  wonder.     Scathed  and 

burned, 
Great  trees  stood  leafless  ;  but  the  earth-soul 

yearned 

Toward  her  salvation,  and  it  came  to  pass,-  - 
Green  resurrection  of  young,  gentle  grass. 

Fair  in  October  as  it  had  been  May ! 
No  matter  for  the  season  passed  away, 
For  shortening  suns,  or  useless  little  while : 
Heaven's  outright  grace  gave  back  that  ver 
nal  smile. 

We  missed  no  more  the  golden  and  the  red. 
For  joy  that  the  deep  heart  was   quick,  no* 

dead. 
We  saw  as  angels  see  ;  through  loss  and  sii, 

nings  : 
All  times  are  spring  to  God's  dear  new  b^ 

ginnings. 


THE  THREE  LIGHTS. 

MY  window  that  looks  down  the  west, 
\Vhere  the  cloud-thrones  and  islands  rest, 
One  evening,  to  my  random  sight, 
Showed  forth  this  picture  of  delight. 

The  shifting  glories  were  all  gone  ; 
The  clear  blue  stillness  coming  on  ; 
And  the  soft  shade,  'twixt  day  and  night, 
Held  the  old  earth  in  tender  light. 


MRS.    ADELINE    D.    T.    WHITNEY. 


Up  in  the  ether  hung  the  horn 
Of  a  young  moon  ;  and,  newly  born 
From  out  the  shadows,  trembled  far 
The  shining  of  a  single  star. 

Only  a  hand's  breadth  was  between, 
So  close  thev  seemed,  so  sweet-serene, 
As  if  in  heaven  some  child  and  mother, 
With  peace  untold,  had  found  each  other. 

Then  my  glance  fell  from  that  fair  sky 
A  little  down,  yet  very  nigh, 
Just  where  the  neighboring  tree-tops  made 
A  lifted  line  of  billowy  shade, — 

And  from  the  earth-dark  twinkled  clear 
One  other  spark,  of  human  cheer  ; 
A  home-smile,  telling  where  there  stood 
A  farmer's  house  beneath  the  wood. 

Only  these  three  in  all  the  space  ; 

Far  telegraphs  of  various  place. 

Which  seeing,  this  glad  thought  was  mine,— 

Be  it  but  little  candle-shine, 

Or  golden  disk  of  moon  that  swings 
Nearest-  of  all  the  heavenly  things, 
Or  world  in  awful  distance  small, 
One  Light  doth  feed  and  link  them  all ! 

SUNLIGHT  AND  STARLIGHT. 


GOD  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone  ; 
They  have  no  daylight  of  their  own  : 
Only  in  lives  of  happier  ones 
They  see  the  shine  of  distant  suns. 

God  knows.     Content  thee  with  thy  night, 
Thy  greater  heaven  hath  grander  light. 
To-day  is  close  ;  the  hours  are  small ; 
Thou  sitt'st  afar,  and  hast  them  all. 

Lose  the  less  joy  that  doth  but  blind  ; 
Reach  forth  a  larger  bliss  to  find. 
To-day  is  brief  :  the  inclusive  spheres 
Rain  raptures  of  a  thousand  years. 


HEARTH-GLOW. 

IN  the  fireshine  at  the  twilight, 

The  pictures  that  I  see 
Are  less  with  mimic  landscape  bright 

Than  with  life  and  mystery. 

Where  the  embers  flush  and  flicker 
With  their  palpitating  glow, 

I  see,  fitfuller  and  quicker, 
Heart-pulses  come  and  go. 

And  here  and  there,  with  eager  flame, 

A  little  tongue  of  light 
Upreaches  earnestly  to  claim 

A.  somewhat  out  of  sight. 

I  know,  with  instinct  sure  and  high, 
A  somewhat  must  be  there  ; 

Else  should  the  fiery  impulse  die 
In  ashes  of  despair. 

Through  the  red  tracery  I  discern 

A  parable  sublime  ; 
A  solemn  myth  of  souls  that  burn 

In  ordeals  of  time. 


How  the  life-spark  yearns  and  shivers 
Till  the  whiteness  o'er  it  creep  ! 

Till  the  last,  pale  hope  outquivers, 
And  quenches  into  sleep  ! 

Till  'mid  the  dust  of  what  has  been, 

It  lieth  dim  and  cold  ; 
Yet  holdeth  secretly,  within, 

Heart-fervor,  as  of  old ! 

As  from  the  darkening  fireside 

I  slowly  turn  away, 
I  think  how  souls  of  men  abide 

The  breaking  of  the  day 

When  a  morning  touch  shall  stir  again 

Those  ashes  of  the  night 
That  gathered  o'er  our  hearts  of  pain 

To  keep  their  life  alight  ! 


TWOFOLD. 

A  DOUBLE  life  is  this  of  ours  ; 

A  twofold  form  wherein  we  dwell : 
And  heaven  itself  is  not  so  strange, 

Nor  half  so  far  as  teachers  tell. 

With  weary  feet  we  daily  tread 
The  circle  of  a  self-same  round  ; 

Yet  the  strong  soul  may  not  be  held 
A  prisoner  in  the  petty  bound. 

The  body  walketh  as  in  sleep, 

A  shadow  among  things  that  seem  ; 

While  held  in  leash,  yet  faraway, 
The  spirit  moveth  in  a  dream. 

A  living  dream  of  good  or  ill, 

In  caves  of  gloom  or  fields  of  light ; 

Where  purpose  doth  itself  fulfill, 
And  longing  love  is  instant  sight. 

Where  time,  nor  space,  nor  blood,  nor  bond 
May  love  and  life  divide  in  twain ; 

But  they  whom  truth  hath  inly  joined 
Meet  inly  on  their  common  plane. 

We*  need  not  die  to  go  to  God  ; 

See  how  the  daily  prayer  is  given  ! 
'T  is  not  across  a  gulf  we  cry, 

"  Our  Father,  who  dost  dwell  in  heaven  ! ' 

And  "  Let  thy  will  on  earth  be  done, 
As  in  thy  heaven,"  by  this,  thy  child  ! 

What  is  it  but  all  prayers  in  one, 
That  soul  and  sense  be  reconciled  ? 

That  inner  sight  and  outer  seem 

No  more  in  thwarting  conflict  strive  ; 

But  doing  blossom  from  the  dream. 
And  the  whole  nature  rise,  alive? 

There  's  beauty  waiting  to  be  born, 
And  harmony  that  makes  no  sound  ; 

And  bear  we  ever,  unaware, 

A  glory  that  hath  not  been  crowned. 

And  so  we  yearn,  and  so  we  sigh, 
And  reach  for  more  than  we  can  see; 

And,  witless  of  our  folded  wings, 
Walk  Paradise  unconsciously  ; 


456 


MRS.    ADELINE    D.    T.    WHITNEY. 


And  dimly  feel  the  day  divine 

With  vision  half  redeemed  from  night, 
Till  death  shall  fuse  the  double  life 

And  God  himself  shall  give  us  light ! 

UP  IN  THE  WILD. 

UP  in  the  wild,  where  no  one  comes  to  look, 
There  lives  and  sings  a  little  lonely  brook  : 
Liveth  and  singeth  in  the  dreary  pines, 
Yet  creepeth  onto  where  the  daylight  shines. 

Pure  from  their  heaven,  in  mountain  chalice 
caught, 

It  drinks  the  rains,  as  drinks  the  soul  her 

thought ; 

And  down  dim  hollows  where  it  winds  along, 
Pours  its  life-burden  of  unlistened  song. 

I  catch  the  murmur  of  its  undertone, 
That  sigheth  ceaselessly,  Alone  !  alone  1 
And  hear  afar  the  Rivers  gloriously 
Shout  on  their  paths  to  ward  the  shining  sea  ! 

The  voiceful  Rivers,  chanting  to  the  sun, 
And  wearing  names  of  honor,  every  one  : 
Outreaching  wide,  and  joining  hand  with 

hand 
To  pour  great  gifts  along  the  asking  land. 

Ah,  lonely  brook!  Creep  onward  through 
the  pines  ; 

Press  through  the  gloom  to  where  the  day 
light  shines  ! 

Sing  on  among  the  stones,  and  secretly 

Feel  how  the  floods  are  all  akin  to  thee  ! 

Drink   the    sweet    rain   the    gentle   heaven 

srndeth  ; 
Hold  thine  own  path,  howeverward  it  tend- 

eth  ; 

For  somewhere,  underneath  the  eternal  sky, 
Thou,  too,  shalt  find  the  Rivers,  by  and  by  ! 


EQUINOCTIAL. 

TIIK  sun  of  life  has  crossed  the  line  ; 

The  summer-shine  of  lengthened  light 
Faded  and  failed,  till  where  I  stand 

'T  is  equal  day  and  equal  night. 

One  after  one,  as  dwindling  hours, 

Youth's  glowing  hopes  have  dropped  away, 
And  soon  may  haivly  leave  the  gleam 
That  coldly  scores  a  winter's  day. 

I  am  not  young  ;  I  am  not  old  ; 

The  (lush  of  morn,  the  sunset  calm, 
Paling  and  deepening,  each  to  each, 

Meet  midway  with  a  solemn  charm. 

One  side  1  see  the  summer  fields 

Not  yet  disrobed  of  all  their  green  ; 

While  westerly,  along  the  hills, 

Flame  the  first  tints  of  frosty  sheen. 

Ah.  middle  point,  where  cloud  and  storm 
Make  battle-ground  of  this,  my  life  ! 

Where,  even-matched,  the  nighr'and  day 
Wage  round  me  their  September  strife  ! 


I  bow  me  to  the  threatening  gale  ; 

I  know  when  that  is  overpast, 
Among  the  peaceful  harvest  days, 

An  Indian  summer  comes  at  last ! 


THE  SECOND  MOTHERHOOD. 


"  He  shi'11    gather   the  lambs  in  his  arms,  ana  carry  them  In 
bosom  ;  and  shall  gently  lead  those  that  are  with  young." 


0  HEARTS  that  long !  0  hearts  that  wait, 
Burdened  with  love  and  pain, 

Till  the  dear  life-dream,  earth-conceived, 
In  heaven  be  born  again  ! 

0  mother-souls,  whose  holy  hope 

Is  sorrowful  and  blind, 
Hear  what  He  faith  so  tenderly 

Who  keepeth  you  in  mind  ! 

Of  all  his  flock  He  hath  for  you 

A  sweet,  especial  grace  ; 
And  guides  you  with  a  separate  care 

To  his  prepared  place. 

For  all  our  times  are  times  of  type, 

Foretokened  on  the  earth  ; 
And  still  the  waiting  and  the  tears 

Must  go  before  the  birth. 

Still  the  dear  Lord,  with  whom  abides 

All  life  that  is  to  be, 
Keeps  safe  the  joy  but  half  fulfilled 

In  his  eternity. 

Our  lambs  He  carries  in  his  arms 
The  heavenly  meads  among; 

And  gently  leadeth  here  the  souls 
Love -burdened  with  their  young  ! 


THE  LAST  REALITY. 
A  CHILD'S  SATIRE. 


CHILDREN     want    always    the     "  truliest " 
things, 

The  things  that  come  nearest  to  life ; 
Grown-up  and  real:  for — sweet  little  souls — 

They  believe  in  the  world  and  his  wife ! 

Grown-up  is  real :  we  stand  in  the  light 
Of  their  heaven  with  our  pitiful  shows, 

Till  the  shams  of  our  living  become  to  their 

sight 
Most  in  earnest  of  all  that  it  knows. 

Kathie  wanted  a  doll  for  her  Christmas  this 

year, 

A  doll  that  could  do  something  grand  ; 
"  Not  cry  ;  that  's  for  babies  ;  "  nor  might  it 

suffice 
That  she  simply  could  sit  and  could  stand. 

"  And  I  don't  care  for  eyes   that  will  open 

and  shut." 

•"  You  did."     "  Well,  the  care  is  all  gone. 
I  've  seen  'em  enough,   mamma ;  /  want  a 

doll 
With  hair  that  takes  off  and  puts  on!  " 


MKS.    HELEN    HUNT. 


SPINNING. 


LIKE  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun, 

I  tread  my  days  ; 
I  know  that  all  the  threads  will  run 

Appointed  ways ; 

I  know  each  day  will  bring  its  task, 
And,  being  blind,  110  more  I  ask. 

I  do  not  know  the  use  or  name 

Of  that  I  spin  ; 
I  only  know  that  some  one  came, 

And  laid  within 

My  hand  the  thread,  and  said,  "  Since  you 
Are  blind,  but  one  thing  you  can  do." 

Sometimes  the  threads  so  rough  and  fast 

And  tangled  fly, 
I  know  wild  storms  are  sweeping  past, 

And  fear  that  I 

Shall  fall ;  but  dare  not  try  to  find 
A  safer  place,  since  I  am  blind. 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  am  sure 

That  tint  and  place, 
In  some  great  fabric  to  endure 

Past  time  and  race, 

My  threads  will  have  ;  so  from  the  first, 
Though  blind,  I  never  felt  accurst. 

I  think,  perhaps,  this  trust  has  sprung 

From  one  short  word 
Said  over  me  when  I  was  young,— 

So  young,  I  heard 

It,  knowing  not  that  God's  name  signed 
My  brow,  and  sealed  me  his,  though  blind. 

But  whether  this  be  seal  or  sign 

Within,  without, 
It  matters  not.     The  bond  divine 

I  never  doubt. 

I  know  he  set  me  here,  and  still, 
And  glad,  and  blind,  I  wait  His  will ; 

But  listen,  listen,  day  by  day, 

To  hear  their  tread 
Who  bear  the  finished  web  away, 

And  cut  the  thread, 
And  bring  God's  message  in  the  sun, 
"  Thou  pjor  blind  spinner,  work  is  done." 


THE  PRINCE  IS  DEAD. 


A  EOOM  in  the  palace  is  shut.     The  king 

And  the  queen  are  sitting  in  black. 

All  day  weeping  servants  will  run  and  bring, 

But  the  heart  of  the  queen  will  lack 

All   things;  and   the   eyes   of  the  king  will 

swim 
With  tears  which  must  not  be  shed, 


But  will  make   all  the   air  float  dark  and 

dim, 

As  he  looks  at  each  gold  and  silver  toy, 
And  thinks  how  it  gladdened  the  royal  boy, 
And    dumbly   writhes    while  the  courtiers 

read 

How  all  the  nations  his  sorrow  heed. 
The  Prince  is  dead. 

The  hut  has  a  door,  but  the  hinge  is  weak, 

And  to-day  the  wind  blows  it  back  ; 

There  are    two  sitting    there    who    do    not 

speak  ; 

They  have  begged  a  few  rags  of  black. 
They  are  hard  at  work,  though  their  eyes 

are  wet 

With  tears  which  must  not  be  shed  ; 
They  dare  not  look  where  the  cradle  is  set  ; 
They  hate  the  sunbeam  which  plays  on  the 

floor, 

But  will  make  the  baby  laugh  out  no  more ; 
They  feel  as  if  they  were  turning  to  stone, 
They  wish  the  neighbors  would  leave  them 

alone. 

The  Prince  is  dead. 


SPOKEN.' 


COUNTING  the  hours  by  bells  and  lights 

We  rose  and  sank  ; 
The  waves  on  royal  banquet-heights 

Tossed  off  and  drank 
Their  jewels  made  of  sun  and  moon, 
White  pearls  at  midnight,  gold  at  noon. 

Counting  the  hours  by  bells  and  lights, 

We  sailed  and  sailed  ; 
Six  lonely  days,  six  lonely  nights, 

No  ship  we  hailed. 

Till  all  the  sea  seemed  bound  in  spell, 
And  silence  sounded  like  a  knell. 

At  last,  just  when  by  bells  and  lights 

Of  seventh  day 
The  dawn  grew  clear,  in  sudden  flights 

White  sails  away 

To  east,  like  birds,  went  spreading  slow 
Their  wings  which  reddened  in  the  glow. 

No  more  we  count  the  bells  and  lights ; 

We  laugh  for  joy. 
The  trumpets  with  their  brazen  mights 

Call  "  Ship  ahoy  !  " 

We  hold  each  other's  hands  ;  our  cheeks 
Are  wet  with  tears  ;  but  no  one  speaks. 

In  instant  comes  the  sun  and  lights 

The  ship  with  fire  ; 
Each  mast  creeps  up  to  dizzy  heights, 

A  blazing  spire ; 


MRS.    HELEN    HUNT. 


One  faint  "  Ahoy,"  then  all  in  vain 
We  look  ;  we  are  alone  again. 

I  have  forgotten  bells  and  lights, 

And  waves  which  drank 
Their  jewels. up  ;  those  days  and  nights 

Which  rose  and  sank 
Have  turned  like  other  pasts,  and  fled, 
And  carried  with  them  all  their  dead. 

But  every  day  that  fire  ship  lights 

My  distant  blue. 
And  every  day  glad  wonder  smites 

My  heart  anew, 

How  in  that  instant  each  could  heed 
And  hear  the  other's  swift  God-speed. 

Counting  by  hours  thy  days  and  nights 
In  weariness, 

0  patient  soul,  on  godlike  heights 

Of  loneliness, 

1  passed  thee  by ;  tears  filled  our  eyes  ; 
The  loud  winds  mocked  and  drowned  our 

cries. 

The  hours  go  by,  with  bells  and  lights  ; 

\Ve  sail,  we  drift  ; 
Our  souls  in  changing  tasks  and  rites, 

Find  work  and  shrift. 
But  this  I  pray,  and  praying  know 
Till  faith  almost  to  joy  can  grow 

That  hour  by  hour  the  bells,  the  lights 

Of  sound  of  flame 
Weave  spell  which  ceaselessly  recites 

To  thee  a  name, 

And  smiles  which  thou  canst  not  forget 
For  thee  are  suns  which  never  set. 


AMREETA  WINE. 


SHE  rose  up  from  the  golden  feast, 
And  her  voice  rang  like  the  sea  ; 

"  Sir  Knight,  put  down  thy  glass  and  come 
To  the  battlement  with  me. 

"  That  was  a  charmed  wine  thou  drank'st, 
Signed  white  from   heaven,  signed  black 
from  hell. 

Alas  !  alas  !  for  the  bitter  thing 

The  sign  hath  forced  thy  lips  to  tell !  " 

"  Ho  here  !  Ho,  there  !     Lift  up  and  bear 

My  choice  wine  out,"  she  said  ; 
"  That    which   hath    brand   of    a    clasping- 
Land, 

And  the  seal  blood-red. 

"Ho  here!  IIo  there!     To  the  castle  stair 

Hear  all  that  branded  wine  ; 
And  das.li  it  far   where  the  breakers  are 

Whitest,  of  the  brine  ! 

'•  L;-t  no  man  dare  to  shrink  or  spare, 

Or  one  n-d  drop  to  spill  ; 
Of  the  endless  pain  of  that  wine's  hot  stain 

Let  the  salt  sea  bear  its  fill. 

"  0  woe  of  mine  !  O  woe  of  thine  ! 

O  woe  of  endless  thirst  ! 
O  woe  for  the  Annv.-ta  wine, 

By  fate  and  thee  accurst ! '" 


The  knight  spake  words  of  sore  dismay 
But  her  face  was  white  like  stone  ; 

She  saw  him  mount  and  ride  away, 
And  made  no  moan. 

The  wind  blew  east,  the  wind  blew  west, 

The  airs  from  sepulchres  ; 
No  royal  heart  in  all  of  them 

So  dead  as  hers  ! 


CORONATION. 


AT  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 
Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun ; 

Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 
The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned  then, 
A    beggar    went,    and    laughed,     "  This 
brings 

Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand ; 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"  Poor   man,    what  .wouldst  thou   have   of 
me  ?  " 

The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying, 
Replied,  like  one  in  a  dream, ""  Of  thee, 

Nothing.     I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  threw  it  by. 

"  0  man,  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 
"  A  greater  king  than  I!" 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then, 
Went  king  and  beggar  hand  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "  Shall  I  know  when 
Before  his  throne  I  stand  V " 

The  beggar  laughed.     Free  winds  in  haste 

^  Wen-  wipinjr  from  the  king's  hot  brow 
The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 
"  This  is  his  presence  now.'' 

At  the  king's  gate,  the  crafty  noon 
Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun; 

Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 
The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"  Ho  here  !  Ho  there  !  Has  no  man  seen 
The  king'.'1"  The  cry  ran  to  and  fro; 

Beggar  and  king,  they 'laughed,  I  ween, 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray  ; 
The   king   came  not.     They    called    him 
dead  ; 

And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 
Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 


TRYST. 


SOMEWHERE  thou  awaitest. 

And  I,  with  lips  unkissed, 
Weep  that  thus  to  latest 
Thou  puttest  off  our  tryst  ! 


MRS.    HELEN    HUNT. 


453 


The  golden  bowls  are  broken, 
The  silver  cords  untwine  ; 

Almond  flowers  in  token 

Have  bloomed, — that  I  am  thine  ! 

Others  who  would  fly  thee 

In  cowardly  alarms, 
Who  hate  thee  and  deny  thee, 

Thou  foldest  in  thine  arms  ! 

How  shall  I  entreat  thee 

No  longer  to  withhold  ? 
I  dare  not  go  to  meet  thee, 

0  lover,  far  and  cold ! 

0  lover,  whose  lips  chilling 
So  many  lips  have  kissed, 

Come,  even  if  unwilling, 
And  keep  thy  solemn  tryst ! 


MY  STRAWBERRY. 


0  MARVEL,  fruit  of  fruits,  I  pause 
To  reckon  thee.     I  ask  what  cause 
Set  free  so  much  of  red  from  heats 

At  core  of  earth,  and  mixed  such  sweets 
With    sour     and     spice:     what    was    that 

strength 

Which  out  of  darkness,  length  by  length, 
Spun  all  thy  shining  thread  of  vine, 
Netting  the  fields  in  bond  as  thine. 

1  see  thy  tendrils  drink  by  sips 
From  grass  and  clover's  smiling  lips  ; 
I  heartily  roots  dig  down  for  wells, 
Tapping  the  meadow's  hidden  cells  ; 

Whole  generations  of  green  things, 
Descended  from  long  lines  of  springs, 
I  see  make  room  for  thee  to  bide 
A  quiet  comrade  by  their  side  ; 
I  see  the  creeping  peoples  go 
Mysterious  journeys  to  and  fro, 
Treading  to  right  and  left  of  thee, 
Doing  thee  homage  wonderingiy. 
I  see  the  wild  bees  as  they  fare, 
Thy  cups  of  honey  drink,  but  spare. 
I  mark  thee  bathe  and  bathe  again 
In  sweet  uncalendared  spring  rain. 
1  watch  how  all  May  has  of  sun 
Makes  haste  to  have  thy  ripeness  done, 
While  all  her  nights  let  dews  escape 
To  set  and  cool  thy  perfect  shape. 
Ah,  fruit  of  fruits,  no  more  1  pause 
To  dream  and  seek  thy  hidden  laws  ! 
1  stretch  my  hand  and  dare  to  taste, 
In  instant  of  delicious  waste 
On  single  feast,  all  things  that  went 
To  make  the  empire  thou  hast  spent. 


"  DOWN  TO  SLEEP.1' 

NOVEMBER  woods  are  .bare  and  still; 

November  days  are  clear  and  bright  ; 
Each  noon  burns  up  the  morning's  chill  ; 

The  morning's  snow  is  gone  by  night  ; 

Each  day  my  steps  grow  slow,  gr,ow  light, 
As  through  the  woods  I  reverent  creep, 
Watching  all  things  lie  "  down  to  sleep." 


I  never  knew  before  what  beds, 

Fragrant  to  smell,  and  soft  to  touch, 

The  forest  sifts  and  shapes  and  spreads  ; 
I  never  knew  before  how  much 
Of  human  sound  there  is  in  such 

Low  tones  as  through  the  forest  sweep 

When  all  wild  things  lie  "  down  to  sleep." 

Each  day  I  find  new  coverlids 

Tucked   in,   and   more    sweet    eyes    shut 

tight ; 
Sometimes  the  viewless  mother  bids 

Her  ferns  kneel  down  full  in  my  sight ; 

I  hear  their  chorus  of  "  good  night ; " 
And  half  I  smile,  and  half  I  weep, 
Listening  while  they  lie  "  down  to  sleep." 

November  woods  are  bare  and  still ; 

November  days  are  bright  and  good  ; 
Life's  noon  burns  up  life's  morning  chill ; 

Life's  night  rests  feet  which  long   have 
stood ; 

Some  warm  soft  bed,  in  field  or  wood, 
The  mother  will  not  fail  to  keep, 
Where  we  can  "  lay  us  down  to  sleep." 

VINTAGE. 

BEFORE  the  time  of  grapes, 
While  they  altered  in  the  sun, 

And  out  of  the  time  of  grapes, 
When  vintage  songs  were  done, — 

From  secret  southern  spot, 

Whose  warmth  not  a  mortal  knew  ; 
From  shades  which  the  sun  forgot, 

Or  could  not  struggle  through, — 

Wine  sweeter  than  first  wine, 
She  gave  him  by  drop,  by  drop  ; 

Wine  stronger  than  seal  could  sign, 
She  poured  out  and  did  not  stop. 

Soul  of  my  soul,  the  shapes 
Of  the  things  of  earth  are  one  ; 

Eemembeiest  thou  the  grapes 
I  brought  thee  in  the  sun  ? 

And  darest  thou  still  drink 

Wine  stronger  than  seal  can  sign  ? 

And  smilest  thou  to  think 
Eternal  vintage  thine  ? 


THOUGHT. 


0  MESSENGER,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I  ? 
Thou  dalliest  out>ide  the  palace  gate 
Till  on  thine  idle  armor  lie  the  late 

And  heavy  dews  :  the  morn's   bright,  r corn- 

fill  eye  . 

Reminds  thee  ;  then,  in  subtle  mockery, 
Tliou  smilest  at  the  window  where  I  wiit, 
Who  bade  the  ride  for  life.      In  empty  state 
My  days  go  on,  while  false  hours  prophe.-y 
Thy  quick  return  ;  at  last,  in  sad  despair, 

1  cease  to  bid  thee,  leave  thee  free  as  air  ; 
When  lo,  thou  stand'st    before   me   glad  a.ul 

fleet, 

And  lay'st  undreamed  of  treasures  at  m\-  feet. 
Ah!  messenger,  thy  royal  bloo  1  to  buy, 
I  am  too  poor.     Tliou  art  the  king,  not  I. 


MRS.    MARGARET     J.    PRESTOS. 


SEBASTIANO  AT  KUPPER.* 

HA  !  ha  !     How  free  and  happy  I  am, 

Here  in  my  rollicking,  careless  culm, 
With  never  a  scowling  monk  to  gibe, 

Or  hurry  me  for  the  crab-like  way' 
They  tell  me  I  work.     That  beggarly  tribe, 

Priors  ami  abbesses,  deem  that  a  day 
Must  count  in  the  life  of  a  picture.     Fools  ! 
They  think   that  they  grow  like  mushroom 

stools. 

— "  Ik-re's  so  many  feet  of  bare,  blank  wall — 
Here's  so  many  days  to  fresco  all." 
Bah!     Through   the    Father's   grace,    that's 

past, 
And  I'm  free — do  you  hear,  friends  ? — free 

at  last, 

With  only  the  Seals  upon  my  mind ; 
As  idle  a  Frate  as  you'll  find 
In  Rome  or  out  of  it.     Here  are  we, 
Gandolfo  and  Messer  Marco— three 
Right  merry  old  roysterers,  faith,  we  be  ; 
The  night  is  before  us;  with  many  a  choras, 
We'll  set  the  rafters  a-ringing  ()vi-  us  ; 
For  I  vow  I  never  could  tell  which  art— 
The   brush   or   the  bow,    mo.-t  s  waved    my 

heart. 

— Yes,  yes — his  worship  Ippolito 
Once  served  me  a  sorry  trick,  1  k;iow — 

The  time  he  sent — (he  was  love  a-cr-izo, 

And  wanted  the  work  quick  done)—  vhiys 
Of  horses  for  speed,  when  I  went  to  paint' 
The  Donna  (Juelma  :  *!,<>  was  the  sa'.nt 

His  prayers  were  said  to,  in  these  old  days  ! 
Well— would  you  believe  it  V     Nathless,  "'tis 
true  ; 

I  left  my  pigments  behind  and  brought 

My  viol,  as  uppermost  in  my  thought: 
— And  what  did  his  Cardinal  graceship  do? 
He  smashed  and  he  crashed  the  strings  right 

through. 

And  so,  thereafter,  I  could  not  shirk, 
For  music,  a  single  day  of  work. 
Aye,  aye — be  sure  'twas  a  brutal  shame, 
But  it  helped  in  a  month  to  build  mv  fame, 
For  1  need  not  tell  you  the  picture's  name. 
Heigho  !   with  a  sweet  relief  I  sigh, 
Aa  I  loungr  so  masterless  here— you  by, 

Dearest  of  comrades— sigh  to  think  " 
How  .Michelagnolo  pinned  me  down, 

Granting  me  scarcely  leave  to  wink, 


Micir.el  Amrelo's  most  f.,,,,ous  pupil  w-is  Sebastisino  del 
I, ombo-so  tailed  from  his  liein-  ma.le  Keeper  ,,f  the  I'apal 
Se-.l,,  through  which  appointment  he  was  enabled  to  live 
Without  work.  But  tor  Ins  excessive  indolence  and  sell-m- 
dulxeuce,  he  might  have  disputed  the  palm  with  auv  ,,i  bis 
cotemp.THries.  All  Art  -pilgrims  will  remember  his 'master 
piece  in  tue  I'hurch  of  San  (iian  Gri.sostomo,  Venice 


Impaled  all  day  on  his  frescoes  brown 
(Lout  that  I  was  to  fear  his  frown  !) 
No  toil  can  tire  him  out :  he'll  be 
Still  fresh — you  mark  me — at  ninety-three, 
With  muscles  like  his  own  David's.     Well 
It  was  that  we  quarreled  ;  for  who  can  tell, 
If  under  his  grand,  resistless  will, 
I  might  not  have  been  a  captive  still  ? 
I  think  the  Maestro  hates  me  though : 
My  debtor  I  made  him  long  ago, 

And  it  rankles  his  terrible  pride.    You  see 
I  went  to  Ischia  once  to  paint 
The  lovely  Marchesa  ;  (What  a  saint 

Of  a  wife  Colonna  had  ! — and  he — 
But  we'll  tell  no  tales  ;  it's  all  forgiven, 
Now  that  he's  been  so  long  in  heaven  ;) 
And  the  picture  I  gave  the  master,  who 
Had  learned  to  worship  that  face,  as  you 
Worship  Our  Lady's  ;  nor  would  I  touch 
In  b-)ot  a  l>i-t,  ••""', ; :  'tis  so  much 
To  Ir-ive  him  beholden  !     And  that  is  how 
The  liking  of  yore  is  hatred  now. 

Ah,  we'! -i-day  !     I  have  loved  my  art, 

Beautiful  mistress  she  ever  was! 
An  1  yet  \\v  are  not  unloth  to  part, 

Though  bound  together  for  years — because 
I  inw  ud'y  groan  to  come  and  go, 
At  beck  of  the  best  ;  and  I  leave  her  so. 
Besides,  I  own,  of  the  perilous  stuff 
The  world  calls  fame  I  have  had  enough. 
To  (Jiulio,  Perino,  and  such,  'tis  best 
I  think,  on  the  whole,  to  leave  the  rest. 

-  I'm  garrulous  :  why  have  you  let  me  waste 

My  breath  a-chattering  ?     Only  taste 

This  vintage,   and  own  it  might  cheat  the 

Fates, 
And  see  you,  my  friends,  the  supper  waits 


ANDREA'S  MISTAKE." 
1512. 


Why,  where  have 


"NOT  heard  the  tale? 

you  been  hidden 
These  seven  days  gone  ?     All  Florence  rings 

it  round  ; 

And  you  may  see,  along  the  Via  Larga, 
Madonna  Maddalena  and  the  rest — 
The  fair  court- ladies,  who  were  wont  to  count 


*  The  marriage   of  Amlrea   del   Sarto  (the  old   Florentine 

muster,  whose  pictures  take  rank,  perhaps,  next  to  Raphael's) 
With  i  widow  of  the  lower  (.lass,  a  beautiful  yet  worthless 
woman,  .<rave  jrreat  disgust  to  his  friends,  and  threatened 
seriously  to  arrest  his  course  as  an  artist. 


MRS.    MARGARET    J.    PRESTON. 


461 


It  honor  if  allowed  to  stand  and  watch 
Over  his  shoulder  as  our  Andrea  worked, — 
May  see  these  very  same  avert  the  face 
And   draw    the    robe    aside    when    Andrea 

passes, 
As  if  from  the  contaminate  touch  of  plague. 

"What   hath  he  done?"      Ay,   verily,  done 

enough 

To  topple  him  down  from  his  high  dignity 
Among  the  Masters.     Take  your    stroll  to 
night 

Through  Di  San  Gallo.and  there  ask  the  first 
Bold    wanton    that    you    chance    to    meet, 

"  What  news?" 
And  I  will  wager  you  ten  oboli 
You'll  have  the  story,  all  the  marrow  in  it, 
iS'eat  as  a  nut — with  yet  the  shell  of  truth. 

"^Rather  from  me?  "     Good  !  you  shall  hear 

it  now. 

Let's  turn  aside,  and  by  the  fountain-brink 
In  cool  San  Marco's  gardens,  talk  of  it. 

"A  woman  ?  "     Certes  !     Did  you  ever  find 
Mischief  a-brewing,  nor  aforehand  know 
A    woman's    meddling    finger    there  V     Per 

Bacco ! 

To  think  how  fortune,  honor,  reverence,  all 
Waited  his  plucking — just  as  quick  to  drop 
At  his  mere  touch  as  yonder  fig  has  tumbled 
Ere  the  wind's  coming ;  then  to  see  him  leave 
The  vintage  of  his  yet  ungathered  life, 
To  rake  a  vile  squeez'd  orange  fiom  the  muck 
Because   the   rind    was    bright  !     Why   just 

consider 

How  royal  Francis  lures  him  to  his  court, 
Till  the  Venetian  Masters  grind  their  teeth, 
And  Veronese   grows  green  ;  and   how  the 

duke 

Counts  Villa  Campi  richer  for  the  forms 
Our    Andrea    leaves   there,  than   if  Flemish 

arras, 

Copied  from  Albrecht's*  rarest  of  cartoons, 
Hung   every    wall.     And    jealous    Florence 

too— 

A  right  harsh  mother  to  her  children  oft — 
Why,  Florence  flings  her  roses  at  his  feet, 
And  sets  him  with  her  nobles,  and  throws 

wide; 
To  him  her  proudest  doors.     And  he — poor 

fool  !— 

For  sake  of  lips  that  take  a  brighter  red, 
Or  cheek  whore  oval  chances  perfecter, 
Haply,  than  any  to  his  insatiate  eye, 
Makes  haste  to  scramble  from  his  hard- won 

seat 

(Dropping  his  brushes  in  the  sewer),  to  run 
And  snatch  this  woman  of  the  people  up, 
And  take  her — mind   you  !— as    his   wedded 

wile. 

"Commend  his   courage?"     Hear   you   first 

the  story, 

Nor,  when  I  tell  it  you,  as  here  we  sit, 
Will  you  once  marvel  that  I  sigh  so,  seeing 
I  hold  our  Andrea's  life  as  lost  to  Art, 

*  Albrecht  Dlirer. 


"1  overstate  tlie  case?  "  Have  you  not  marked 
How    a   base   woman,   armed   with  leopard 

strength 
To  match  her  leopard  charms,  can  downward 

drag 
The  man  who  loves  her  with  the  strangling 

gripe 

Of  claws  about  his  throat,  and  hold  him  EO, 
Till  all  his  rigid  energies  relax, 
And  the  fine  fibres  of  his  nobler  will 
Beneath  the  brutish  clutch  part  strand  by 

strand  ? 

"He  lift  her  up  ?  "     Alack  !  who  ever  raw 
The   diamond,   dropt   within    the    festering 

heap 

Aglow  with  poison -flowers,  prevail  to  make 
The  mud  illuminate  ?  or  beheld  it  even 
Dredged  up,   belike,   from  the    pestiferous 

slime, 

Again  to  flash  on  a  pure  forehead  ?     Art — 
This   priesthood  of    all   beauteousness  —  is 

weak 

Against  temptation,  and  it  offers  oft 
Sweet  incense  to  false  gods,  and   kneels  at 

shrines 
Where,    in  its   solemn    claim    of  Good  and 

True 
And  Beautiful,  'tis  sacrilege  to  worship. 

"Faith  in  our  Andrea's  genius" — which  you 

say 

Is  not  a  diamond  to  be  lost  i'  the  mire, 
But  a  most  lambent  star  that  in  the  orbit 
Of  its  own  splendor  shall  go  circling  on, 
To  far-off  ages  visible  ?     Well,  they'll  see  ! 

"Pity  him?"     Yea,  I'm  moved  to  think  on 

him  ; 

And  so  to  Santa  Trinita  I'll  go 
To-morrow  with  gifts  to  please  Our  Lady  : 

she, 
Mayhap,   may    grant    some    respite   of  the 

"  thrall, 

Seeing  through  this  Maestro's  skill  divine 
Mortals  are  won  to  purer  love  of  her, 
By  reason  of  his  semblances.     But  yonder 
Jacopo  beckons,  and  my  tale's  not  told. 

DONNA  MARGHERITA.* 

(AN  ART-PICTURE.) 


HERE  is  the  chamber:  Messers,  enter  ye  : 
A  Borgherini  needs  must  courtesy  yield 
To  whoso  comes.     Ye  see  upon  the  walls 
My   priceless  pictures,  .famed  all  Florence 

through — 

Jacopo's  work.     Behold  the  Patriarch's  sons, 
Cruel,  unpitying,  grouped  about  the  boy, 
Whom,  for  a  fardel  of  rough  Midiau  gold, 
Thev  barter,  mindless  of  his  frantic  prayers. 


*  Dnrinj;  one  of  tlie  sieves  of  Florence,  the  artist  Palla,  with 

the  connivance  of  the  venal  SfcflOl  /.  sei/ert,  u    J~ f 

purch  use  for  the  King  of  France,  iniinhers  of  t 
of   the  city,— thus  enriching  liiniself  throng 
ruin.     The    Donna    M«rgh0ritn    HorjHierini,, 
masterpiece   ofjucopo   Puntormo—  1  to     Ht*t 
hnu-ed  the  power  of  the  State,  and  refused 
pictures. 


ler  pretence  of 

e  art-treasures 
his   rMimtry's 
ho    owned    the 


give  up  her 


462 


MRS.    MARGARET    J.    PRESTOX. 


Ha  !  Palla, — stand   where   thou    canst   note 

the  chaffer, — 

Yea, — so  ! — And  now  I  say,  this  Simeon, 
•Who  clutches   from  the 'Arab's    sleeve  the 

prict 

0  Vr  which  they  higgle,  is  as  a  puling  milk 

sop 

To  that  thou  art !     lie  bartered  only  blood  ; 
Thou,— honor,    faith,   and   Florence !     And 

because 

She  lies,  our  Florence,  weeping  at  the  feet 
Of  her  invaders,  in  her  broideries  wrapped, 
(An  Empress  still,  wanting,  albeit,  a  crust, — ) 
Thy  thief's  hand  twitches  off  thy  Mother's 

robe, 

Leaving  her  in  her  nnded  majesty 
To  perish.     Out  upon  thy  villainy  ! 

1  would  this  golden  bodkin  Avere  a  lance, 
For  other  impalement  than  a  woman's  hair  : 
But  being  a  woman,  shorn  of  all  defence, 
Saving  my  shuddering  hate,  I  dare  defy 
Thee   and   thy   myrmidons,    though   ye   be 

armed 

With  license  from  the  huckstering  Signori ; — 
Ye  loosen  no  pictures  from  these   walls,  ex 
cept 
Ye  loosen  them  with  my  life  ! 

— Why,  cravens,  yonder 
Stands  in  that  carven  niche  my  bridal  couch  ; 
And  when  I  use  from  my  Francesco's  face 
To  turn,  1  ever  met  the  moistened  lift 
Of  Jacob's  lids, — 'see  !)  as  with  lips  a-strain, 
lie  quaffs  the  maiden's  foamy  loveliness  : 
The  earliest  sight  that  filled  the  baby  eyes 
Of  my  youno-  Florentine,  was   yon  Hebrew 

lad 

Weeping  before  his  brothers'  knees.   Why  I 
Were  lacking  in  such  mere  brute   instincts 

even 

As  teach  the  leaguered  lioness  to  fight 
For  shielding  of  her  cubs  and  lair, — if  less 
I  dare  for  these.     \Yith  the   white  heats  of 

scorn 

I'll  shrivel  your  purpose,  till  ye  shun  to  see, 
Each  gazing  on  each,  how  dastards  haste  to 

crawl 
Out  of  the  glare. 

.  .  .  Yet  Palla  hath  loved  Art ; 
And  he  hath  painted  Mary-Mother's  face 
Divinely,  as  between  heaven's  rosy  clouds 
Herself  had    stooped  to  grant   him  seraph- 
glimpse, 
Else  iinconceived — 

Palla,  some  wine? — Meseems 
Thy    brow  grows   ashen: — J\'<v  ? — Then  sit 

apart 
ruder  the  arch  here,  where  thou  best  canst 

mark 

Reuben  the  coward,  who  slinks  away  afeard 
To  brave  the  wrath  of  Judah  and  the  rest. 

- — What !  tire  ye  of  the  masterpiece  so  soon 
That   ye   turn  backs  on't'.'     Ay,  'tis  well  ve 

put 
Your  tools  np  ;  they'll  unfasten  no   frames 

to-day 

From  Casa  Borgherini's  walls,  I  promise: 
And  to  the  ^'iytwri  (brave,  worshipful!) 


Bear,  with  my  duty,  back  the  Iscariot  bribe, 
Owning  that  Donna  Margherita  haggled 
Over  the  price, — seeing  she   holds   the  pic 
tures 
At  cost  of  her  heart's  blood. 


DOROTHEA'S  ROSES. 

(IN   FLORENCE.) 

YES, — here  is  the  old  cathedral ; 

Out  of  the  glare  and  heat, 
We'll  plunge  in  these  depths  of  coolness, 

( — Take  the  prie-dieu  for  a  seat :) 

Bathe  in  this  gloom  your  vision, 
So  wearied  with  frescoed  shows, 

And  let  the  slow  ripples  of  silence, 
Tide-like,  around  you  close. 

Then  at  your  ease,  I'll  show  you 
That  picture  of  Carlo's,*— the  sight 

Of  whose  so  ineffable  sweetness 
Prismed  my  dreams  last  night. 

Surely  you've  heard  the  legend, 
(Saint  Cyprian  hands  it  down,) 

Of  the  beautiful  Dorothea 

Who  was  crowned  with  the  fiery  crown  ? 

No  ? — Then  sit  as  you're  sitting 

There,  in  that  open  stall, 
Just  where  the  great  rose-window 

Splendors  the  eastern  wall, — 

Just  where  the  sunset  shivers 

Its  darts  on  the  altar-rail, 
And  while  the  blue  smoke  of  the  incense 

Rises,  I'll  tell  the  tale. 

— There  dwelt  (while  the  old  religion 

For  the  golden  East  sufficed, 
While  the  Grecian  Zeus  was  worshipped 

In  the  temples,  instead  of  Christ — 

When  flame  and  rack  and  dungeon 

Awaited  the  neophyte 
Who  turned  from  an  idol's  statue, 

Or  shrank  from  a  pagan  rite) — 

In  a  fair  Greek  city,  a  maiden, 

Whose  fame  went  all  abroad 
Because  of  her  wondrous  beauty, 

And  they  called  her  Tin'  yift  "f  God. 

One  day,  as  she  passed,  bestowing 

Offerings  at  Hebe's  shrine, 
Strange  words  to  her  ear  were  wafted — • 

New  teachings  that  seemed  divine. 

She  paused,  and  the  hoary  hermit 

Placed  in  her  hands  a  scroll, 
— Saint  John-the-Divine's  sweet  Gospel — 

And  she  read — and  believed  the  whole. 

Thereat,  the  fierce  proconsul 

Rose  in  his  wrath  : — "  Deny 
This  myth  of  the  Galilean, 

Or  thou,  by  the  gods,  shalt  die  !  " 


Carlo  Duke's  St.  Dorothea. 


MRS.    MARGARET    J.    PRESTON. 


433 


Meekly  she  bowed  before  him, 
With  a  faith  110  threat  could  dim  ; 

«  He  hath  died  for  me,  and  I  cannot, 

I  cannot  do  less  for  Him  !  " 

As  out  through  the  gates  of  the  city, 
They  led  her  to  meet  her  death, 

From  the  midst  of  his  gay  companions, 
Hilarion  mocking  saith — 

«  Ha  ! — goest  thou,  lovely  maiden, 

(Such  joy  on  thy  face  I  see,) 
Afar  to  some  fair  Elysium, 

Where  thy  bridegroom  waits  for  thee  ? 

"  If  there  an  Hesperides  garden 
Blooms,  that  is  brighter  than  ours, 

Send  me,  beseech  thee,  in  token, 
A  spray  of  celestial  flowers  ! " 

She  smiled  with  a  smile  seraphic ; 

'<  Is  that  of  thy  faith  the  price  ? 

Then,  verily,  thou  shalt  have  roses 

Gathered  in  Paradise." 

Onward  she  went  exulting, 

As  though  she  were  borne  mid  air  ; 

And  lo  !  as  she  neared  the  pyre, 
A  fair-haired  boy  stood  there, — 

'in  his  hand,  three  dewy  roses, 
Clustered  about  their  stem  : 
—  "Ah,    hasten,"— she    said,— "  sweet    an 
gel  ! 
Hilarion  waits  for  them  !  " 


— Come  now,  and  see  Carlo's  picture 
Of  the  maiden,  as  she  stands 

With  the  golden  nimbus  around  her, 
And  the  roses  within  her  hands. 


IN  AN  EASTERN  BAZAAR. 

I  AM  tired  ! — Let  us  sit  in  the  shadows 

This  mosque  flings,— (how    drowsy   they 
are!) 

And  watch,  a«  they  come  from  the  meadows, 
Those  carriers,  each  with  his  jar 
And  puff  at  a  lazy  cigar. 

Confess  now,  'tis  something  delicious — 
To  leave  the  old  life  a.ll  behind, 

Its  turbulence,  worries  and  wishes, 
Its  loves  and  its  longings,  and  find 
A  Nirvana  at  last  to  your  mind. 

What  softness  suffuses  the  picture  ! 
lio\v  tranquil  the  poppied  repose  ! 

—See    the    child    there,    unbound    by    the 

strict  are 

Of  dress  that  encumbers  : — he  knows 
(Acquit  of  the  gyves  we  impose) 

What  the  meaning  of  freedom  is,  better 
Than  any  young  Frank  of  them  all, 

Whose  civilized  feet  we  must  fetter — 
Whose  fair  Christian  limbs  we  must  gall 
With  garments  that  chafe  and  enthrall. 


Just  look  at  yon  brown  caryatid 
Who  poises  the  urn  on  her  head  ; 

— Don't  tell  me  her  long  locks  are  matted, 
But  mark  the  Greek  Naiad  instead, 
— Such  grace  to  such  symmetry  wed  ! 

Quick  ! — notice  the  droop  of  her  shoulder, 
And  the  exquisite  curve  of  her  arm  ; 

None  ever  will  tell,  or  has  told  her 

How  perfect  she  is  : — There's  the  charm  ! 
Such  knowledge  brings  nothing  but  harm. 

Here's  a  group  now  !     The  jealous  Zenanas 
Unveil  in  the  twilight  their  bowers  ; 

And  girls  that  look  proud  as  Sultanas, 
Bloom  out  as  the  night-blooming  flowers, 
That  drowse  with  their  odors  the  hours. 

True  wildlings  of  nature  !  Each  gesture 

A  study,  by  art  undefiled  : 
They  gather  or  loosen  their  vesture, 

By  no  thought  of  observance  beguiled, 

Unconscious  of  aim  as  a  child. 

— The  traffic  too, — what  now  could  ruffle 
Yon  white-turban'd  merchant's  repose, 

As  placidly  scorning  the  scuffle 

And  chaffer,  he  waits  ?  — for  he  knows 
Where  the  vantage  will  rest,  at  the  close. 

I  miss  (and  how  slumbrous  the  feeling !) 
As  I  catch  the  low  hum  of  these  hives, 

That  Occident  worry  that's  stealing 

(Through   schemes  that  our  culture  con 
trives) 
The  calmness  all  out  of  our  lives. 

No  exigence  harries  their  pleasures  ; 
Unbeautiful  haste  does  not  fray 

Their  time  of  its  margin  of  leisures  ; 
While  ice,  in  our  prodigal  way, 
Forestall  our  whole  morrow,  to-day. 

Yes yes— I  concede  we're  their  betters, 

(Self-gratulant  Goth  that  I  am  !) 

We  have  science,  religion  and  letters, 

With   the   bane  of  the  curse,  we've  the 

balm  : 
They  keep  their  inviolate  calm. 

If  only  this  land  of  the  lotus 

Would  teach  us  the  charm  it  knows  best, 

That  could    soothe  the   rasped  nerve — that 

could  float  us 

Far  off  to  some  Island  of  Rest, 
What  a  boon  from  the  East  to  the  West ! 


ST.  GREGORY'S   SUPPER. 

"  SERVANT  of  sfrrmtt*  !    That  is  the  name 

Falleth  the  fittest  when  they  call; 
Jesus  my  Master  bore  the  same, 

Though  He  be  Sovereign  Lord  of  all. 
Shut  in' my  crypt  by  night,  by  day, 

Breathing  Hie  P<^<-e  wi*h  every  breath, 
I  was  content  To  wear  away, 

Tasting  a  calm  as  s\ve<  t  as  death  : 
Yet  they  have  bidden  me  forth  to  bear 

Mitre  and  stole  and  sacred  staff, — 
Burdens  that  stoop  my  heart  with  care 

Heart  that  is  weak  as  winnowed  cnatt. 


404 


MRS.    MARGARET    J.    PRESTO X. 


"  Valens,  abide  with  me,  friend  of  friends, 

Sluire,  as  we  use,  our  joy— our  woe  ; 
Order  my  household, — make  amends 

— Steading  me  thus — to  poor  and  low, 
Whom,  in  their  hovels,  I'll  see  no  more  : 

Gather  each  night  about  my  board 
Twelve  grav  beggars  to  halve  my  store, 

( — Am  1  not  almoner  for  my  Lord  ? — ) 
Twelve  of  the  outcasts.    Even  to  such 

Still  I  would  Servant  of  servants  be : 
Small  the  abasement  ! — think  how  much 

(ireater  the  Master's  was  for  me." 

Forth  to  his  work  the  Pontiff  passed, 

Wrapt  in  his  prayerful  thoughts  apart, 
Fearful  some  clouding  pride  should  cast 

Shadows  of  bale  above  his  heart. 
Valens  made  haste  against  he  caine, 

Summoned  as  guests  the  twelve  he  bade, 
Hungry  and  homeless,  lost  to  shame, 

Only  in  iilth  and  rags  arrayed  : 
Just  as  They  were,  defiled,  unsweet, 

Grimed  with  the  squalid  crust  of  sin. 
Pivs.-ing  their  hands,  their  host  did  greet 

Each,  as  they  wondering,  entered  in. 

Lifting  his  voice,  he  prayed, —then  brake 

Generous  bread  for  their  full  repast : 
"  Welcome,"— he     said, — "  for     the    Lord's 
dear  sake  ;" 

While  o'er  the  group  his  eyes  lie  cast. 
"  As  it  is  written, — He  sat  at  meat 

Tli  us  iritli  the  Twelve  ; — Ha,   what   may  it 

mean  ? 
Valens,  1  bade  that  but  twelve  should  eat, 

Yet  there  be  verily  here  thirteen  !" 
Valens  made  answer  : — "  Even  so, 

Heeded  I,  hearkening  to  thy  hest : 
One  hath  intruded,  nor  do  I  know 

Wherefore  he  titteth  among  the  rest." 

"  Whence     art     thou     come,    unbidden  ? — 
Speak  !  " 

Straightway  the  stranger  gave  reply  : 
— ' '  Once  did  a  starving  palmer  seek 

Alms  of  thee,  passing  thy  cloister  by. 
'  Nothing' — thou  saidst — '  is  mine  to  give, 

Saving  this  silvern  bowl, — to  me, 
Gift  of  ruy  mother  ;  yet  take  and  live  : ' 

— Know'st  thou  the  palmer? — lam  he!" 
E'en  as  he  spake,  his  face  waxed  faint, 

Brightened,  then  paled  in  a  splendor  dim, 
Leaving  them  ma/ed, — and  then  the  Saint 

Knew  it  was  Christ  who  had  supped  with 
him  ! 

THE  OPEN  GATE. 

PAST  and  over  ;— Yet  no  frenzy 

Marks  my  overladen  brain  ; 
Grief  can  anodyne  the  spirit, 

Wo:-  can  numb  its  pain. 
Did  you  deem  the  blow  would  crush  me, 

Pitying  comforters, — that  I 
In  despairing  acquiescence 

Could  but  moan  and  die  ? 
N:iy,— one  deadening  shock  hath  palsied 

So  my  sentient  nature  o'er, 
Well  I  knew  no  after  sorrow 

Now  could  craze  me  more. 


Yet  I  grasped  without  abatement 

Its  full  meaning  when  ye  said, 
Softly,  lest  the  sound  should  stun  me, 

That  the  child  was  dead. 
Keep  that  bitterer  word, — it  gauges 

Something  of  that  other  woe, 
Different  as  the  soundless  ocean's 

From  the  shallows'  flow. 
Oh,  not  dead  : — that  word  has  in  it 

Maddening  terrors,  wild  alarms  : 
— Rather,  God  has  given  the  darling 

To  his  father's  arms  ! 
Months — or  is  it  years  ? — have  vanished 

Since  for  him  the  boy  has  smiled, 
And  if  saints  can  long  in  heaven, 

He  must  want  the  child. 

...  I  have  seen  the  gates  unfolding, 

(Heavenly  hath  the  vision  been,) 
—Seen  the  little  stranger  venture 

Through  the  radiance  in  : 
Watched  the  timid,  shrinking  wonder 

On  the  baby- face  so  fair, 
And  the  kindling  smile  of  rapture, 

When  he  found  him  there  : 
Watched  the  soul-full  recognition  ; 

Saw  the  finger  pointing  back 
To  the  arms  he  knew  were  stretching 

Toward  that  shining  track  : 
Till  I  wondered  at  my  sorrow, — 

But  the  vision  would  not  stay  ; 
And  it  left  the  truth  unsofteiied, 

— He  is  taken  away. 
— What  is  left  me  ?     Only  patience, 

Only  heart  to  watch  and  wait, 
Till  that  moment  when  as  convoys 

From  the  open  gate, 
Forth  shall  issue  child  and  father, 

Bend  above  me, — name  my  name, — 
Sent  upon  a  tenderer  errand 

Than  they  ever  came  : 
If  to  nurse  the  thought  can  lighten 

Even  now  the  crush  of  woe, 
Surely,  surely  'twill  be  blissful 

To  arise  and  go  ! 

GOD'S  PATIENCE. 

OF  all  the  attributes  whose  starry  rays 
Converge  and  centre  in  one  focal  light 
Of  luminous  glory  such  as  angels'  sight 
Can  only  look  on  with  a  blench'd  amaze, 
None  crowns  the  brow    of  God  with  purer 

blaze, 
Nor   lifts    His    grandeur  to  more  infinite 

height 

Than  His  exhaustless  patience.  Let  us  praise 
With  wondering  hearts    this  strangest,  ten- 

derest  grace, 

Remembering  awe-struck,  that    the    aveng 
ing  rod 

Of  Justice  must  have  fallen,  and  Mercy's  plan 
Been  frustrate,  had  not  Patience  stood  be 
tween, 

Divinely  meek.    And  let  us  learn  that  man, 

Toiling,  enduring,  pleading — calm,  serene, 

For  those  who  scorn  and  slight,  is  likest  God. 


:NTOKA  PERRY. 


IN  JUNE. 


So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blow 
ing, 

So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see  ; 
So  blithe  and  g-ay  the  humming-bird  a-going 
From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunting  with  the 
bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes, 

The  calling,  cooing,  wooing,  everywhere  ; 

So  sweet  the    water's   song    through   reeds 

and  rushes, 

The  plover's   piping  note,  now  here,  now 
there. 

So  sweet,   so   sweet,  from  off  the  fields  of 

clover, 
The  west  wind  blowing,  blowing  up   the 

hill  ; 
So  sweet,  so  sweet,  with  news  of  some  one's 

lover, 

Fleet    footsteps    ringing    nearer,    nearer 
still. 

So  near,  so  near,  now  listen,  listen  thrushes; 
Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let  me 

hear  ; 
And  water,  hush  your   song  through    reeds 

and  rushes, 

That   I  may   know   whose   lover   cometh 
near. 

So  loud,  so  loud,  the  thrushes   kept  their 

calling, 

Plover  or  blackbird  never  heeding  me  ; 
So  loud   the   mill-stream  too  kept  fretting, 

falling, 

O'er  bar  and  bank,  in  brawling,  boisterous 
glee. 

So  loud,  so  loud  ;  yet  blackbird,  thrush  nor 

plover, 

Nor  noisy  mill-stream,  in  its  fret  and  fall, 
Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of  my 

lover, 

My   lover   calling   through    the  thrushes' 
call. 

"  Come  down,  come  down  !  "  he  called,  and 

straight  the  thrushes 
From   mate   to    mate    sang    all   at  once, 

"  Come  down  !  " 
And  while  the  water  laughed  through  reeds 

and  rushes, 

The  blackbird   chirped,  the  plover  piped, 
"  Come  down  !" 

Then  down  and  off,  and  through  the  fields 

of  clover, 
I  followed,  followed  at  my  lover's  call ; 


Listening  no   more  to  blackbird,  thrush,  or 

plover, 

The  water's  laugh,  the  mill-stream's  fret 
and  fall. 


THAT  WALTZ  OF  VON  WEBER'S. 


GAYLY  and  gayly  rang  the  gay  music, 

The   blithe,  merry  music  of    harp  and   of 

horn, 

The  mad,  merry  music,  that  set  us  a-dancing 
Till   over   the  midnight  came  stealing  the 
morn. 

Down    the    great    hall    went    waving    the 

banners, 
Waving   and  waving  their  red,  white   and 

blue, 
As   the   sweet   summer  wind  came  blowing 

and  blowing 

From  the  city's  great  gardens  asleep  in  the 
dew. 

Under  the  flags,  as  they  floated  and  floated, 
Under  the  arches  and  arches  of  flowers, 

We  two  and  we  two  floated  and  floated 
Into  the  mystical  midnight  hours. 

And    just   as  the  dawn  came  stealing   and 

stealing, 
The  last    of    those    wild  Weber  waltzes 

began  ; 
I  can  hear  the  soft  notes   now  appealing  and 

pleading, 

And   I  catch  the  faint  scent  of   the  sandal- 
wood  fan 

That  lay  in  your   hand,  your  hand  on   my 

shoulder, 

As  down  the  great  hall,  away  and  away, 
All  under  the  flags  and  under  the  arc-lies, 
We  danced  and  we  danced  till  the  dawn  of 
the  day. 

But  why  should  I  dream  o'er  this  dreary  old 

ledger, 
In  this  counting-room  down  in  this  dingy 

old  street, 
Of  that  night  or  that  morning,  just  there  at 

the  dawning, 

When  our  hearts  beat  in  time  to  our   fast- 
flying  feet  ? 

What   is   it   that   brings    me  that   scent  of 

enchantment, 

So   fragrant  and  fresh  from  out  the  dead 
years, 


403 


NORA    PERRY. 


That  just  for  a   moment  I'd   swear  that  the 

music 

Of  Weber's  wild    waltzes  was  still  in   my 
ears  ? 

What  is  it,  indeed,  in  this  dusty  old  alley, 
That  brings  me  that  night  or  that  morning 
in  June  ? 

What  is  it,  indeed?— I  laugh  to  confess  it — 
A  hand  organ  grinding  a  creaking  old  tune  ! 

But   somewhere   or   other   I   caught    in  the 

measure 
That  waltz  of  Von  Weber's,  and  back  it  all 

came, 
That   night  or  that   morning,  just   there   at 

the  dawning, 

When  I  danced  the  last  dance  with  my  first 
and  last  flame. 

My  first  and  my  last!  but  who  would  believe 

me 

If,  down  in  this  dusty  old  alley  to-day, 
'Twixt  the  talk    about    cotton,  the   markets, 

and  money, 

I  should  suddenly  turn   in   some  moment 
and  say 

That  one  memory  only  had  left  me  a  lonely 
And    gray -bearded  bachelor,  dreaming  of 

Junes, 
Where   the   nights   and  the  mornings,  from 

the  dusk  to  the  dawnings, 
Seemed  set  to   the  music  of  Weber's  wild 
tunes  ! 


RIDING  DOWN. 


OH  did  you  see  him  riding  down, 
And  riding  down,  while  all  the  town 
Came  out  to  see,  came  out  to  see, 
And  all  the  bells  rang  mad  with  glee? 

Oh  did  you  hear  those  bells  ring  out, 
The  bells  ring  out,  the  people  shout, 
And  did  you  hear  that  cheer  on  cheer, 
That  over  all  the  bells  rang  clear  ? 

And  did  you  see  the  waving  flags, 
The  fluttering  flags,  and  tattered  flags, 
Red,    white    and   blue,    shot    through    and 

through, 
Baptized  with  battle's  deadly  dew  ? 

And  did  you  hear  the  drums'  gay  beat, 
The  drums'  gay  beat,  the  bugles  sweet, 
The  cymbals'  clash,  the  cannons'  crash 
That  rent  the  sky  with  sound  and  flash? 

And  did  you  see  me  waiting  there, 
Just  waiting  there,  and  watching  there, 
One  little  lass  amid  the  mass 
That  pressed  to  see  the  hero  pass  ? 

And  did  you  see  him  smiling  down, 
And  smiling  down,  as  riding  down, 
With  slowest  pace,  with  stately  grace, 
lie  caught  the  vision  of  a  face. 

My  face  uplifted,  red  and  white, 
Turned  red  and  white  with  sheer  delight, 
To  meet  the  eyes,  the  smiling  eyes, 
Out  flashing  in  their  swift  surprise. 


Oh  did  you  see  how  swift  it  came, 
How  swift  it  come  like  sudden  flame, 
That  smile  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see? 

And  at  the  windows  all  along, 
Oh,  all  along,  a  lovely  throng 
Of  faces  fair,  beyond  compare, 
Beamed  out  upon  him  riding  there. 

Each  face  was  like  a  radiant  gem, 
A  sparkling  gem,  and  yet  for  them 
No  swift  smile  came,  like  sudden  flame, 
No  arrowy  glance  took  certain  aim. 

He  turned  away  from  all  their  grace, 
From  all  that  grace  of  perfect  face, 
He  turned  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see ! 


MY  LADY. 


HERE  she   comes — my  lady — so  fair  and  so 

fine 
From  the  gold  of  her  hair  to  the  glitter  and 

shine 
Of  her   Pompadour  silk  with  its   ruffles  of 

lace — 
A  wonderful  vision  of  fashion  and  grace. 

Here    she  comes — my  lady — drawing   on  the 

pink  gloves 
Which   I   know,  even   here,  have   the  scent 

that  she  loves ; 

And  soft,  as  she  moves  her  fingers  of  snow, 
I  catch   in  the  movement   the  sparkle  and 

glow 

Of  the    ring  that   I  gave  her — the  diamond 

solitaire 

That  marks  her  "  my  lady,"  in  Vanity  Fair; 
My  lady — my  jewel — to  have  and  to  hold 
As  her  diamond  is  held— in  a  setting  of  y old. 

My  lady — my  jewel — would  she  sparkle  and 

glow 

If  into  the  light  I  should  suddenly  go, 
And  stand  where   her  beautiful   eyes    would 

discover 
In  the  flash   of  a   moment,  the    eyes    of  her 

lover  ? 

Would  she  turn  to  my  glance  as  the  diamond 

turns 
To  the  light  all  its  rays,  till  it  blushes  and 

burns  ? 
Should    I,  standing  thus,  in   that   moment — 

her  lover, 
Be   the  light,  all   the   light   of  her   soul   to 

discover  V 

Ah,  my  lady — my  jewel — so  fair  and  so  fine, 
Of  your  soul  1  have  had  little  token  or  sign; 
When  I  put  on  your  finger  that  diamond 

solitaire, 
/  knew  I  was  buying  in  Vanity  Fair  ! 


NORA    PERRY. 


467 


ANOTHER  YEAR. 

'•"  ANOTHER  year,"  she  said,  "another  year. 
These  roses  I  have  watched  with  so  much 

care, 
Have  watched  and  tended  without  pain  or 

fear, 
Shall    bud  and   bloom  for   me  exceeding 

fair — 
Another  year,"  she  said,  "  another  year." 

"  Another  year,"  she  said,  "another  year, 
My  life  perhaps  may  bud  and  bloom  again, 

May  bud  and  bloom  like  these  red  roses  here, 
Unlike    them,    tended    with    regret    and 
pain — 

Another  year,  perhaps,  another  year. 

"  Another  year,  ah,  yes,  another  year, 
When   bloom  my  roses,  all  my  life  shall 

bloom  ; 
When  summer  comes,  my  summer  too  '11  be 

here, 

And  I  shall  cease  to  wander  in  this  gloom — 
Another  year,  ah,  yes,  another  year. 

"  For  ah,  another  year,  another  year, 

I'll  i-et  my  life  in  richer,  stronger  soil, 
And  prune  the  weeds  away  that  creep  too 

near, 
And  watch  and  tend  with   never-ceasing 

toil — 
Another  year,  ah,  yes,  another  year." 

Another  year,  alas  !  another  year, 

The  roses  all  lay  withering  ere  their  prime, 
Poor  blighted  buds,  with  scanty  leaves  and 

sere, 
Drooping   and    dying    long    before    their 

time — 
Another  year,  alas  !  another  year. 

And  ah,  another  year,  another  year, 

Low,  like  the  blighted  dying  buds,  she  lay, 

Whose  voice  had  prophesied  without  a  fear, 
Whose   hand   had  trimmed  the  rose-tree 
day  by  day, 

To  bloom  another  year,  another  year. 


AFTER  THE  BALL. 


TIITCY  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair, 
Their  long,  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 

As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  chamber 

there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille, 
Idly  they  laughed,  like  other  girls, 

Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 
Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Kobe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 
Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons,  too, 

Scattered  about  in  every  place, 
For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  pivttiest  night-gowns  under  the  sun, 

Btockingless,  slipperless,  sit  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done, — 


Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those    wonderful   waves    of    brown    and 
gold, 

Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill, 
All  out  of  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather, 

While  the  fire  is  out  and  the  house  is  still, 
Maud  and  Madge  together, — 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 

The  prettiest  night-gowns  under  the  sun, 

Curtained  away  from  the  chilly  night, 
After  the  revel  is  done, — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream, 
To  a  golden  gittern's  tinkling  tune, 

While  a  thousand  lustres  shimmering  stream 
In  a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces, 
Tropical  odors  sweeter  than  musk, 

Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faces, 
And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk,— 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star, 
One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each, 

And  one  voice,  sweeter  than  others  are, 
Breaking  into  silvery  speech, — 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom, 

An  old,  old  story  over  again, 
As  down  the  royal  bannered  room, 

To  the  golden  gittern's  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk, 
While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside, 

And  all  unheard  in  the  lovers'  talk, 
He  claimeth  one  for  a  bride. 

0,  Maud  and  Madge,  dream  on  together, 
With  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear! 

For,  ere  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year, 

Robed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for  the  tomb, 
Braided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress, 

There'll  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the  bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press, — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls, 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, — 

Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 
At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

O  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white, 
For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun  ; 

But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms  to-night 
The  revel  of  Life  is  done  ! 

But   robed   and  crowned  with  your  saintly 
bliss, 

Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  sun, 
0  beautiful  Maud,  you'll  never  miss 

The  kisses  another  hath  won  ! 


LAUEA    0.    REDDER. 


DISARMED. 

0  LOVE  !  so  sweet  at  first ! 
So  bitter  in  the  end  ! 

1  name  thee  fiercest  foe, 

As  well  as  falsest  friend. 
What  shall  I  do  with  these 

Poor  withered  flowers  of  May- 
Thy  tenderest  promises — 

All  worthless  in  a  day  ? 

How  art  thou  swift  to  slay, 

Despite  thy  clinging  clasp, 
Thy  long-  caressing  look, 

Thy  subtle,  thrilling-  grasp  ! 
Ay,  swifter  far  to  slay 

Than  thou  art  strong  to  save  ; 
Thou  renderest  but  a  blow 

For  all  1  ever  gave.  , 

Oh,  grasping  as  the  grave  ! 

Go,  go  !  and  come  no  more — 
But  canst  thou  set  my  heart 

Just  where  it  was  before  ? 
Too  selfish  in  thy  need ! 

Go,  leave  me  to  my  tears, 
The  only  gifts  of  thine 

That  shall  outlast  the  years. 

Yet  shall  outlast  the  years 

One  other  cherished  thing, 
Slight  as  the  vagrant  plume 

Shed  from  some  passing  wing 
The  memory  of  thy  first 

Divine,  half-timid  kiss. 
Go  !  I  forgive  thee  all 

In  weeping  over  this  ! 


BROKEN  OFF. 

MEX  said  unto  a  prince  of  story-tellers, 

"  Tell  us  another  tale  ! '' 
And    yet,  beside  the  bells,  stood   phantom 
knellers, 

And  his  voice  was  fit  to  fail. 

At  first  he  faltered,  saying,  "  I  am  weary, 
And  the  words  are  slow  to  come. 

Across  my  kin  flit  visions  dim  and  eerie, 
And  'tis  sweet  to  keep  at  home  !  " 

But  the  clamor  rose,  by  many  voices  strength 
ened  ; 

And  one  voice  in  his  heart 
GrewT   louder    as   the    spring-tide    shadows 

lengthened  : 
"  All !  'tis  dull  to  sit  apart ! 


"Be   prouder  than    to    wait    with    fingers 

folded, 

Scared,  looking  out  for  death  ; 
Drop    not    the  habit   which  thy   life   hath 

moulded 
But  with  thy  lease  of  breath  !  " 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  heavy  fore 
head, 

And  then  across  his  eyes  ; 
Before  him  rose  a  spectre,  dim  and  horrid, 

With  terrible  replies  : 

"  The  name  by  which  men  name  me,  while 
they  shiver, 

It  is  Swiftly  .Certain  Death  : 
Leave  all  the  latest  arrows  in  their  quiver, 

Or  'gage  to  me  thy  breath  !  " 

Ah  me  !  this  prince  of  worthy  story-tellers 

Stood  sad  beneath  the  sun  ; 
For  he  could  see  where  stood  the  phantom 
knellers  — 

But  the  story  was  begun  ! 

Some  said  :  "  It  is  his  story  of  all  stories  ;  " 

And  others  :  "  Lo  !  he  fails  ! 
His  later  can  not  match  his  earlier  glories  — 

He  falters  and  he  pales  !  " 

But   men   pressed   round   him,    eagerly,   to 

listen  ; 

And  all  else  was  forgot. 
He  coaxed  the  smile  to  shine,  the  tear  to 

glisten  ; 
And  then  —  his  voice  was  not  ! 


The    tale   was    but    begun  —  the   web    half 

woven  — 

The  colors  scarcely  mixed  — 
The    cunning    of    his    hand    was    not    yet 

proven  — 
His  intent  hardly  fixed. 

For  the  dark  comrade  who  walked  with  his 

walking 

Laid  lightly  on  his  lip 
A  cold  forefinger  —  and  he  ceased  from  talk 

ing  — 
Suddenly  —  without  slip. 

Ah  !    still    lips   locked    on    the   mysterious 

story  ! 

Ah  !  hand  that  can  not  hold 
The  pen  by  which  he  earned  his  meed  of 

glory  — 
He's  dead  !  and  'tis  not  told  1 


LAURA    C.    REDDEN. 


WORN  OUT. 


You  say  that  the  sun  is  shining, 
That  buds  are  upon  the  trees, 

That  you  hear  the  laugh  of  the  waters, 
The  humming  of  early  bees  : 
I  am  pleasured  by  none  of  these — 
I  am  weary ! 

Let  me  alone  !  The  silence 

Is  sweeter  than  song  to  me  ! 
Dearer  than  Light  is  Darkness 

To  the  eyes  that  loathe  to  see  ! 

'Tis  better  to  let  me  be  — 
I  am  weary  ! 

I  have  faltered  and  fallen — 

The  race  was  but  begun  ; 
I  am  ashamed,  and  I  murmur, 

"  Oh  !  that  the  day  were  done  !  " 

How  can  I  love  the  sun, 
Who  am  weary  ? 

What  will  you  do  for  the  flower 
That  is  cut  away  at  the  root  ? 

If  the  wing  of  the  bird  be  broken, 
What  wonder  the  bird  is  mute  ? 
Oh,  peace  !  and  no  more  dispute — 
I  am  weary ! 

I  will  give  you  a  token — 

A  token  by  which  to  know 
When  I  have  forgotten  the  trouble — 

The  trouble  that  tires  me  so 

That  I  can  no  further  go, 
Being  weary. 

When  you  shall  come  some  morning 
And  stand  beside  my  bed, 

And  see  the  wonderful  pallor 
That  over  my  face  is  spread, 
Shrink  not.     But  remember  I  said 
I  was  weary. 

Then  shall  you  search  my  features, 

But  a  trace  you  shall  not  see 
Of  all  these  months  of  sadness 

That  have  put  their  mark  on  me  ; 

Then  know  that  I  am  free, 
Who  was  weary. 

For  the  Old  must  fall  and  crumble 

Before  we  can  try  the  New  ; 
We  must  taste  that  the  False  is  bitter 

Before  we  can  crave  the  True. 

This  done,  there's  no  more  to  do, 
Being  weary, 

Only  to  droop  the  eyelids, 

Only  to  bow  the  head, 
And  to  pass  from  those  who  are  singing, 

"  Alas  !  for  our  friend  is  dead  !  " 

But  remember  how  I  said, 
"  I  am  weary  !  " 

A  LOVE-SONG  OF  SORRENTO. 

COME  away  to  the  shade  of  the  citron  grove, 

Carina ! 
To  hear  the  voice  of  the  brooding  dove, 

Carina ! 


Her  soft  throat  swells  as  she  tells  her  love 
To  her  tender  mate  in  the  myrtle  above, 
And  her  tremulous  pinions  responsive  move, 
Cara !  Carina ! 

Ah  !  love  is  sweet  as  the  spring  is  sweet, 

Carina ! 
For  me  thou  makest  the  spring  complete, 

Carina  ! 

The  young  wind  bloweth  unto  thy  feet 
A  drift  of  flowers  thy  steps  to  meet, 
And  the   wounded   blossoms    perfume  the 
heat, 

Cara !  Carina ! 

They  are  tokens  for  only  a  bride  to  wear, 

Carina ! 
Yet  I  would  crown  thee  if  I  might  dare, 

Carina ! 

Ah  !  shy  and  sweet  and  tender  and  rare, 
Put   away   from    thine     eyes    thy    shining 

hair 
Nay,  now,  have  I  startled  thee,  unaware  ? 

Cara !  Carina ! 

My  heart  is  lying  across  thy  way, 

Carina  ! 

As  thou  crushest  the  flowers,  wilt  thou  crush 
it— say, 

Carina  ? 

Or,  sadder  yet,  wilt  thou  let  it  stay 
Where  it  is  lying,  well  away, 
All  on  this  pleasant  morning  in  May  ? 

Cara  !  Carina ! 

My  beautiful  flower  of  flowers  !  No, 

Carina  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  scorn  it  nor  crush  it  so, 

Carina  ! 

One  true  little  word  before  we  go  ; 
Close — nestle  close — and  whisper  low — 
Low  while  the  faint  south  breezes  blow, 

Cara!  Carina! 

Thou'lt  wear  nothing  but  white  when  we 
are  wed, 

Carina  ! 

Thou'lt   have   orange  blossoms    about    thy 
head, 

Carina ! 
The  maidens  shall   string   them   on    silver 

thread ; 

On  a  rose-leaf  carpet  thou  shalt  tread, 
While  the  bride  -blush  maketh  thy  beauty 
red, 

Cara !  Carina  ! 


AN  EMPTY  NEST. 

MINE  is  the  soug  of  an  empty  nest : 
Others  will  bring  you  braver  songs ; 

But  mine  must  utter  my  heart's  behest 
Though  I  sing  it  to  heedless  throngs. 

My  steps  were  over  the  blanched  leaves 
That  had  taken  the  frost's  untimely  kiss 

Not  long  ago  we  had  carried  the  sheaves, 
But  the  season  was  all  amiss. 

With  hanging  head  and  loitering  feet 
Toward  the  open  land  I  went, 


470 


LAURA    C.    REDDEN. 


Through  places  that  summer  had    made  so 

sweet 
With  a  glamour  but  briefly  lent. 

I  trod  upon  something  soft  and  dry, 

For    my    eyes    were  full    on   the    flaming 

we.st  ; 
And  just  where  the  grass  was    thick    and 

high 
Was  lying — an  empty  nest. 

Oh,  what  visions  of  faded  spring  ; 

Oh,  what  memories  of  silenced  song, 
Of  brooding  breast,  and  of  glancing  wing, 

To  an  empty  nest  belong' ! 

And  the  thought  that  suddenly  came  to  me, 
Close  to  the  water,  facing  the  west, 

Was  of  some  singing  that  used  to  be 
In  another  forsaken  nest. 

There  were  two  birds  that  began  to  sing 
Low  in  the  fields  of  yellow  corn — 

Not  for  the  heed  their  song  should  bring, 
But  for  love  of  the  dewy  morn. 

Birds  of  one  feather  and  sister  birds, 
Crowded  out  of  a  roof-tree  nest, 

Hatched  within  sound  of  lowing  herds, 
But  flying  away  from  the  west. 

Birds  of  one  feather  fare  best  together  : 
Singing,  they  built  them  another  nest, 

Sat  in  it  and  sung  in  the  worst  of  we&ther, 
Each  loving  the  other  best. 

But  we  who  listened  one  morning  knew 
That  only  one  bird  was  left  to  sing  : 

They  never  had  sung  apart,  the  two, 
And  we  talked  of  a  broken  wing. 

Now,  should  you  chance  to  pass  that  way, 
You  would  vainly  listen  for  any  song  ; 

But  what  regrets  for  the  vanished  lay 
To  this  empty  nest  belong  ! 


THE  FIELDS  ARE  GRAY  WITH  IMMORTELLES. 


TIIK  slice])  are  sheltered  in  the  fold, 
The  mists  are  marshalled  on  the  hill, 

The  squirrel  watches  from  his  lair, 
And  every  living  thing  is  still  : 

The  fields  are  gray  with  Immortelles  ! 

The  river,  like  a  sluggish  snake, 

Creeps  o'er  the  brown  and  bristly  plain 

I  hear  the  swinging  of  the  pines 
Betwixt  the  pauses  of  the  rain 

Down-dripping  on  the  Immortelles  ! 

And  think  of  faces,   slimy  cold, 

That  flinch  not  under  falling  1ears  ; 

Meek-mouthed  and  heavy-lidded,  and 
With  sleek  hair  put  behind  the  ears, 

And  crowned  with  scentless  Immortelles  ! 

The  partridge  hath  forgot  her  nest 
Among  the  M  ubhle  by  the  rill  ; 

In  vain  the  lances  of  the  frost 

Seek  for  some  tender  things  to  kill  : 

They  can  not  hurt  the  Immortelles  ! 


Sad  empress  of  the  stony  fell ! 

Gray  stoic  of  the  blasted  heath  ! 
Dullest  of  flowers  that  ever  bloomed. 

And  yet  triumphant  over  death, 
0,  weird  and  winged  Immortelle  ! 

Lie  lightly  upon  Nature's  breast, 

And  cover  up  her  altered  face, 
Lest  we  should  shiver  when  we  see 

The  brightness  of  its  vernal  grace 
Grown  grayer  than  the  Immortelles  ! 

The  wind  cries  in  the  reedy-marsh, 

And  wanders,  sobbing,  through  the  dell  ; 

Poor,  broken-hearted  lover,  he 
For  violets  finds  the  Immortelle  ! 

The  Immortelle  !     The  Immortelle 

ENTRE  NOUS. 

As  we  two  slowly  walked  that  night, 

Silence  fell  on  us — as  of  fear  ; 
I  was  afraid  to  face  the  light, 

Lest  you  should  see  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

You  drew  my  arm  against  your  heart, 
So  close  I  could  feel  it  beating  near ; 

You  were  brave  enough  for  a  lover's  part — 
You  were  so  sure  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

Then  you  murmured  a  word  or  two, 

And  tenderly  stooped  your  listening  ear  ; 

For  you  thought  that  all  that  you  had  to  do 
Was  to   hear   me    say   that    I    loved  you, 
dear. 

But,  though  your  face  was  so  close  to  mine 
That   you   touched   my    cheek    with  your 
chestnut  hair, 

I  wouldn't  my  lips  to  yours  resign  : 

And  yet — I  loved  you — I  loved  you,  dear. 

And  all  at  once  you  were  cold  and  pale, 
Because  you  thought  that  I  did  not  care  ; 

I  cried  a  little  behind  my  veil — 

But  that  was  because  I  loved  you,  dear. 

And  so  you  thought  'twas  a  drop  of  rain 
That  splashed   your   hand?     But  'twas    a 
tear  ; 

For  then  you  said  you'd  never  again 
Ask  me  to  say  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

Well !  I  will  tell— if  you'll  listen  now  : 
I  thought  of  the  words  you  said  hist  year  ; 

How  we  girls  weren't  coy  enough,  and'  how 
There  were  half  a  dozen   that  loved  you, 
dear. 

And  I  was  afraid  that  you  held  me  light, 
And  an  imp  at  my  shoulder  said,  "  Beware  ! 

He's  just  in  a  wooing  mood  to-night." 
So  I  wouldn't  say  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

Not  though  I  thought  you  the  Man  of  men, 
Chiefest  of  heroes,  brave  and  rare  ; 

Not  though  I  never  shall  love  again 
Any  man  as  I  loved  you,  dear. 

I  have  suffered,  and  so  have  you  ; 

And   to-night,  if   you  were  but    standing 

here, 
I'd  make  you  an  answer  straight  and  true, 

If  you'd  ask  again  if  I  loved  you,  dear. 


HAKRIET    MoEWEN    KIMBALL. 


YIA  DOLOROSA. 


In  the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation."— Si.  JOHJ 


MY  Saviour  said  :  "  Take  up  thy  cross 
And  follow  me  where  I  may  lead  ; 

Count  every  earthly  treasure  dross, 
And,  losing,  find  thy  life  indeed." 

I  raised  my  burden  ;  it  was  light : 
Alas  !  how  heavy  it  has  grown  ! 

0  toilsome  way  !  O  cruel  height ! 
Lord,  can  I  bear  my  cross  alone  ? 

My  foes,  unnumbered  and  unseen, 

Press  madly  round  me  day  and  night  ; 

1  have  no  friend  on  whom  to  lean  ; 

I  sink  in  sorrow  and  affright ! 

0  blessed  Voice  !  .   .  .  I  hear  Him  say  : 
"  Lo,  1  am  with  thee  till  the  end  ; 

Thy  strength  shall  fail  not  through  thy  day, 
And  I  am  thy  Eternal  Friend." 

The  burdens  of  the  world  He  bore, 

And  shall  I  shrink  from  bearing  mine  ? 

Alone  He  walked  in  anguish  sore, 
But  me  upholds  with  love  divine. 

His  grace  can  smooth  the  roughest  road ; 

The  way  He  hallowed  I  will  take  : 
How  heavy,  yet  how  light  the  load 

That  I  must  bear  for  His  dear  sake  ! 

Through  tribulation  though  He  lead, 

He  maketh  self-denial  sweet ; 
My  life  I  lose  each  day  indeed 

To  find  it  at  my  Saviour's  feet ! 


MY  KNOWLEDGE. 


Hid  in  Thy  everlasting  deeps, 
The  silent  God  His  secret  keeps. 

The  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Life  Thou  art  ! 

This,  this  I  know  ;  to  this  I  cleave  ; 
The  sweet  new  language  of  my  heart— 

"  Lord,  I  believe  :  " 
I  have  no  doubt  to  bring  to  Thee  ; 
My  doubt  has  fled,  my  faith  is  free ! 


PRAYING  IN  SPIRIT. 


THOUGH  men  confront  the  living  God 
With  wisdom  than  His  Word  more  wise, 

And  leaving  paths  apostles  trod, 
Their  own  devise  ; 

I  would  myself  forsake  and  flee, 

0  Christ,  the  living  Way,  to  Thee  ! 

1  know  not  what  the  schools  may  teach, 

Nor  yet  how  far  from  truth  depart ; 
One  lesson  is  within  my  reach — 

The  Truth  Thou  art : 
And  learning  this,  I  learn  each  day 
To  cast  all  other  lore  away. 

I  cannot  solve  mysterious  things, 

That  fill   the  schoolmen's   thoughts  with 

stiife  ; 
But  oh  !  what  peace  this  knowledge  brings, 

Thou  art  the  Life ; 


"But  th<ni,  when  tliou  prayest,  enter  into  t 
lliou  hast  shut  thy  dour,  pray  to  thy  Father  w 
ST.  MATT.  vi.  6. 


I  NEED  not  leave  the  jostling  world, 
Or  wait  till  daily  tasks  are  o'er, 

To  fold  my  palms  in  secret  prayer 
Within  the  close-shut  closet  door. 

There  is  a  viewless,  cloistered  room, 
As  high  as  heaven,  as  fair  as  day, 

Where,  though  my  feet  may  join  the  throng, 
My  soul  can  enter  in  and  pray. 

When  I  have  banished  wayward  thoughts, 
Of  sinful  works  the  fruitful  seed, 

When  folly  wins  my  ear  no  more, 
The  closet  door  is  shut,  indeed. 

No  human  step  approaching  breaks 
The  blissful  silence  of  the  place  ; 

No  shadow  steals  across  the  light 
That  falls  from  my  Redeemer's  face  ! 

And  never  through  those  crystal  walls 
The  clash  of  life  can  pierce  its  way, 

Nor  ever  can  a  human  ear 

Drink  in  the  spirit-words  I  say. 

One  hearkening,  even,  cannot  know 

When  I  have  crossed  the  threshold  o'er, 

For  He,  alone,  who  hears  my  prayer 
Has  heard  the  shutting  of  the  door! 


HUMBLE  SERVICE. 


IT  is  an  easy  thing  to  say, 

"  Thou  knowest  that  I  love  Thee,  Lord !  " 
And  easy  in  the  bitter  fray 

For  His  defence  to  draw  the  sword. 

But  when  at  His  dear  hands  we  seek 
Some  lofty  tru>T  for  Him  to  keen, 

To  our  ambition  vain  and  weak 

How  strange    His    bidding,     "  Feed    my 
sheep." 

"  Too  mean  a  task  for  love,"  we  cry  ; 
Remembering  not  if,  in  our  pride, 


HARRIET    Me  E  WEN    KIMBALL. 


We  pass  Ills  humbler  service  by, 
Our  vows  are  by  our  deeds  denied. 

O  Father!  help  us  to  resign 

Our  hearts,  our  strength,  our  wills  to  Thee; 
Then  even  lowliest  work  of  Thine 

Most  noble,  blest,  and  sweet  will  be  ! 


MY  FRIEND. 


not  wrong  thee,  0  To-day, 
With  idle  longing  for  To-morrow  ; 
But  patient  plough  my  field,  and  sow 
The  seed  of  faith  in  every  furrow. 

Enough  for  me  the  loving  light 

That  melts  the  cloud's  repellent  edges  ; 

The  still  unfolding,  bud  by  bud, 

Of  God's  most  sweet  and  holy  pledges. 

I  breathe  His  breath  ;  my  life  is  His  ; 

The  hand  lie  nerves  knows  no  defraud 

ing,  — 
The  Lord  will  make  this  joyless  waste 

Wave  with  the  wheat  of  His  rewarding. 

Of  His  rewarding  !     Yes  ;  and  yet 
Not  mine  a  single  blade  or  kernel  ; 

The  seed  is  His  ;  the  quickening  His  ; 
The  care,  unchanging  and  eternal. 

His,  too,  the  harvest  song  shall  be, 

When.  He  who  blest  the  barren  furrow 

Shall  thrust  His  shining  sickle  in, 
And  reap  my  little  field  To-morrow. 


THE  BELL  IN  THE  TOWER. 


the  bell  in  the  high  church-tower, 
Striking  the  hour  ; 
The  hushed  Night  hearkens,  like  one  who 

stands 
In  sudden  awe,  with  uplifted  hands  I 

A  Spirit  up  in  the  tower  doth  dwell, 

And  when  the  bell 

Penis  out  the  hours  with  a  measured  chime, 
I  hear  him  turning  the  sands  of  time  ! 

He  says  :  "  Life  dieth  with  every  breath  !  " 

Whispers  of  Death: 
"  It  is  the  fall  of  the  flower  of  Earth  ; 
The  promise-seed  of  immortal  birth!  " 

He  speaks  to  the  striving  world  below  : 

"  Why  do  ye  so? 

Will  all  the  treasure  that  hand  can  hold 
Buy  sweeter  sleep  in  the  church-yard  mould  ? 

"Behold  one  (Jod,  over  great  and  small, 

.Tiidgelli  ye  all  ! 

Ask  Him  for  grace  in  the  morning  light, 
And  pray  for  pardon  and  peace  at  night  !  " 

O,  while  I  listen  my  whole  soul  bows, 

Paying  her  vo\vs  ; 
And  folly  tieeth  with  sinful  fear, 
As  those  clear  bell-strokes  fall  on  my  ear  ! 


For  not  more  solemn  the  holy  chimes, 

In  other  times, 

That  helped  the  faithful  to  pray  aright, 
And  put  the  spirits  of  air  to  flight! 

And  ever — ever  would  I  be  near, 

Daily  to  hear — 

Daily  and  nightly,  in  work  or  rest, 
The   Voice   that   pierces    and    soothes 
breast  ! 


ALL'S  WELL. 


my 


THE  day  is  ended.     Ere  I  sink  to  sleep 

My  weary  spirit  seeks  repose  in  Thine  : 
Father  !  forgive  my  trespasses,  and  keep 
This  little  life  of  mine. 

With   loving    kindness    curtain    Thou    my 

bed  ; 

And  cool  in  rest  my  burning  pilgrim-feet ; 
Thy  pardon  be  the  pillow  for  my  head — 
So  shall  my  sleep  be  sweet. 

At  peace  with  all  the  world,  dear  Lord,  and 

Thee, 
No  fears  my  soul's  unwavering  faith  can 

shake ; 

All's    well !   whichever   side   the  grave  for 
me 

The  morning  light  may  break  ! 


THE  GUEST. 


"BehnH.Istand  at  the  door,  and  knock  :  if  any  man  hear  my 
vnic*-,  tind  u]>en  thfi  door.  I  will  come  in  to  him,  and  wil!  sup  with 
him,  and  he  with  me."— RKV.  iii.  20. 


SPEECHLESS  Sorrow  sat  with  me ; 
I  was  sighing  wearily  ! 
Lamp  and  fire  were  out :  the  rain 
Wildly  beat  the  window-pane. 
In  the  dark  wre  heard  a  knock ; 
And  a  hand  was  on  the  lock  ; 
One  in  waiting  spake  to  me, 

Saying  sweetlv, 
"I  am  come  to  sup  icith  tlice  !  " 

All  my  room  was  dark  and  damp  ; 
"  Sorrow  !  "  said  I,  "  trim  the  lamp  ; 
Light  the  fire,  and  cheer  thy  face; 
f-et  the  guest-chair  in  its  place." 
And  again  I  heard  the  knock  : 
In  the  dark  I  found  the  lock  : — 
"  Enter!  I  have  turned  the  key! — 

Enter,  Stranger ! 
Who  art  come  to  sup  with  me." 

Opening  wide  the  door,  he  came  ; 
But  I  could  not  speak  his  name  : 
In  the  guest-chair  took  his  place ; 
But  I  could  not  see  his  face  ! 
When  my  cheerful  fire  was  beaming, 
When  my  little  lamp  was  gleaming, 
And  the  feast  was  spread  for  three, 

Lo  !  my  MASTER 
Was  the  Guest  that  supped  with  me ! 


EMMA    LAZAEUS. 


IN  THE  JEWISH  SYNAGOGUE  AT  NEWPORT. 


HERE,  where  the  noises  of  the  busy  town, 
The  ocean's   plunge  and   roar    can   enter 
not, 

We  stand  and  gaze  around  with  tearful  awe, 
And  muse  upon  the  consecrated  spot. 

No  signs  of  life  are  here  :  the  very  prayers 
Inscribed  around  are  in  a  language  dead  ; 

The  light  of  the  "  perpetual  lamp  "  is  spent 
That  an  undying  radiance  was  to  shed. 

What  prayers  were  in  this  temple  offered  up, 
Wrung  from  sad  hearts  that  knew  no  joy 

on  earth, 

By  these  lone  exiles  of  a  thousand  years, 
'From  the  fair  sunrise  land  that  gave  them 
birth ! 

Now  as  we  gaze,  in  this  new  world  of  light, 
Upon  this  relic  of  the  days  of  old, 

The  present  vanishes,  and  tropic  bloom, 
And  Eastern  towns  and  temples  we  behold. 

Again  we  see  the  patriarch  with  his  flocka. 

The  purple  seas,  the  hot  blue  sky  o'erhead, 
The  slaves  of  Egypt, — omens,  mysteries, — 

Dark  fleeing  hosts  by  flaming  angels  led. 

A  wondrous  light  upon  a  sky -kissed  mount, 
A  man  who  reads  Jehovah's  written  law, 

'Midst  blinding  glory  and  effulgence  rare, 
Unto  a  people  prone  with  reverent  awe. 

The  pride  of  luxury's  barbaric  pomp, 

In  the  rich  court  of  royal  Solomon- 
Alas  !  we  wake  :  one  scene  alone  remains, — 
The  exiles  by  the  streams  of  Babylon. 

Our  softened  voices  send  us  back  again 
But   mournful  echoes  through  the  empty 
hall  ; 

Our  footsteps  have  a  strange  unnatural  sound, 
And  with  unwonted  gentleness  they  fall. 

The  weary  ones,  the  sad,  the  suffering, 
All  found  their  comfort  in  the  holy  place, 

And  children's  gladness  and  men's  gratitude 
Took   voice   and   mingled   in  the  chant  of 
praise. 

The  funeral  and  the  marriage,  now,  alas  ! 

We  know  not  which  is  sadder  to  recall  ; 
For  youth  and  happiness  have  followed  age, 

And  green  grass  lieth  gently  over  all. 

Nathless  the  sacred  shrine  is  holy  yet, 

With   its   lone   floors  where   reverent  feet 
once  trod. 

Take  off  your  shoes  as  by  the  burning  bush, 
Before  the  mystery  of  death  and  God. 


ON  A  TUFT  OF  GRASS. 


WEAK,  slender  blades  of  tender  green, 
With  little  fragrance,  little  sheen, 

What  makes  ye  so  dear  to  all  ? 
Nor  bud,  nor  flower,  nor  fruit  have  ye, 
So  tiny,  it  can  only  be 

'Mongst  fairies  ye  are  counted  tall. 

No  beauty  is  in  this, — ah,  yea, 
E'en  as  I  gaze  on  you  to-day, 

Your  hue  and  fragrance  bear  me  back 
Into  the  green,  wide  fields  of  old, 
With  clear,  blue  air,  and  manifold 

Bright   buds    and  flowers   in    blossoming 
track. 

All  bent  one  way  like  flickering  flame, 
Each  blade  caught  sunlight  as  it  came, 

Then  rising,  saddened  into  shade  ; 
A  changeful,  wavy,  harmless  sea, 
Whose  billows  none  could  bitterly 

Reproach,   with     wrecks     that    they    had 
made. 

No  gold  ever  was  buried  there 

More  rich,  more  precious,  or  more  fair 

Than  buttercups  with  yellow  gloss. 
No  ships  of  mighty  forest  trees 
E'er  foundered  in  these  guiltless  seas 

Of  grassy  waves  and  tender  moss. 

All,  no  !  ah.  no  !  not  guiltless  still, 
Green  waves  on  meadow  and  on  hill, 

Not  wholly  innocent  are  ye  ; 
For  what  dead  hopes  and  loves,  what  graves, 
Lie  underneath  your  placid  waves, 

While  breezes  kiss  them  lovingly  1 

Calm  sleepers  with  sealed  eyes  lie  there  ; 
They  see  not,  neither  feel  nor  care 

If  over  them  the  grass  be  green. 
And  some  sleep  here  who  ne'er  knew  rest, 
Until  the  grass  grew  o'er  their  bn-a-t, 

And  stilled  the  aching  pain  within. 

Not  all  the  sorrow  man  hath  known, 
Nor  all  the  evil  he  hath  done, 

Have  ever  cast  thereon  a  stain. 
It  groweth  green  and  fresh  and  light, 
As  in  the  olden  garden  bright, 

Beneath  the  feet  of  Eve  and  Cain. 

It  flutters,  bows,  and  bends,  and  quivers, 
And  creeps  through  forests  and  by  rivers, 

Each  blade  with  dewy  brightness  wet, 
So  soft,  so  quiet,  and  so  fair, 
Wo  almost  dream  of  sleeping  there, 

Without  or  sorrow  or  regret. 


474 


EMMA    LAZARUS. 


DREAMS. 

A  DIIE.VM  of  lilies  :  all  the  blooming  earth, 

A  garden  full  of  fairies  and  of  flowers; 
Its  only  music  the  glad  cry  of  mirth, 

While  the  warm  sun  weaves  golden-tissued 

•    hours  ; 
Hope  a   bright  angel,  beautiful  and  true 

As  Truth  herself,  and  life  a  lovely  toy, 
Which    ne'er   will    weary  us,  ne'er  break,  a 
new 

Eternal  source  of  pleasure  and  of  joy. 

A  dream  of  roses:  vision  of  Love's  tree, 

Of  beauty  and  of  madness,  and  as  bright 
As  naught  on  earth  save  only  dreams  can  be, 
.Made  fair  and  odorous  with    flower    and 

light ; 
A    dream    that    Love    is    strong  to  outlast 

Time, 

That    hearts  are   stronger   than  forgetful- 
ness, 
The    slippery    sand   than    changeful    waves 

that  climb, 

The  wind-blown  foam  than  mighty  waters' 
stress. 

A  dream  of  laurels  :  after  much  is  gone, 
Much  buried,  much  lamented,  much    for 
got, 

With  what  remains  to  do  and  what  is  done, 
With  w.hat  yet  is,  and  what,  alas  !  is  not, 
Man  dreams  a  dream  of   laurel  and   of  bays, 
A  dream  of    crowns    and    guerdons    and 

rewards, 
Wherein  sounds  sweet   the  hollow   voice   of 

praise, 

And    bright   appears    the   wreath  that   it 
awards. 

A  dream  of  poppies,  sad  and  true  as  Truth, 
That    all    these   dreams    were  dreams   of 

vanity  ; 
And  full  of  bitter  penitence  and  ruth, 

In  his  last  dream,  man  deems  'twere  good 

to  die ; 
And  weeping  o'er  the  visions  vain  of  yore. 

In  the  sail  vigils  he  doth  nightly  keep, 
He  dreams  it  may  be  good  to  dream  no  more, 
And  life  has  nothing  like  Death's  dream 
less  sleep. 


EXULTATION. 


BEHOLD,  I  walked  abroad  at  early  morning, 
The    lie] ds   of    June   were   bathed    in    dew 

and  lustre, 
The   hills   were   clad  with   light  as   with  a 

garment. 

The  inexpressible  auroral  freshness, 
The  grave,  immutable,  aerial   heavens, 
The  transient  clouds  above  the  quiet  land 
scape, 

The  heavy  odor  of  the  passionate  lilacs, 
That    hedged  the  road  with    sober-colored- 
clusters, 
All  these  o'ermastered  me  with  subtle  power, 


And  made  my  rural  walk  a  royal  progress, 
Peopled  my  solitude  with  airy  spirits, 
Who  hovered  over  me  with  joyous  singing. 

"Behold!"   they    sang,    "the   glory   of  the 

morning. 
Through    every  vein   does   not  the  summer 

tingle, 
With  vague  desire  and  flush  of  expectation  ? 

"  To  think  how  fair  is  life  !  set  round  with 
grandeur ; 

The  eloquent  sea  beneath  the  voiceless 
heavens, 

The  shifting  shows  of  every  bounteous  sea 
son  ; 

"  Rich  skies,  fantastic  clouds,  and  herby 
meadows, 

Gray  rivers,  prairies  spread  with  regal  flow 
ers, 

Grasses  and  grains  and  herds  of  browsing 
cattle  : 

"  Great  cities  filled  with  breathing  men  and 

women, 

Of  whom  the  basest  have  their  aspirations, 
High  impulses  of  courage  or  affection. 

"  And   on    this  brave  earth    still   those  finer 

spirits, 

Heroic  Valor,  admirable  Friendship, 
And  Love  itself,  a  very  god  among  you. 

"All  these  for  thee,  and  thou  evoked  from 

nothing, 
Born    from  blank   darkness  to  this  blaze  of 

beauty, 
Where   is  thy    faith,    and   where    are    thy 

thanksgivings?  " 

The  world  is  his  who  can  behold  it  rightly, 
Who  hears  the  harmonies  of  unseen  angels 
Above  the  senseless  outcry  of  the  hour." 


SONNET. 

STILL  northward   is  the    central    mount   of 

Maine, 

From  whose  high  crown  the  rugged  for 
ests  seem 

Like  sliaven  lawns,  and   lakes    with    fre 
quent  gleam, 
"Like    broken    mirrors,"    flash    back    light 

again. 

Eastward  the  sea,   with  its  majestic  plain, 
landless,  of  radiant,  re,-tless  blue,  superb 
With  miirht and  music,  whether  storms  per 
turb" 
Its  reckless    waves,  or   halcyon    winds   that 

reign, 

Make  it  serene  as  wisdom.     Storied  Spain 
Is   the   next  coast,   and   yet  we   may  not 

sigh 

For  lands  beyond  the  inexorable  main  ; 
Our  noble  scenes  have  yet  no  history. 
All  subtler  charms  than  those  that  feed 

the  eye, 
Our    lives    must    give   them  ;    'tis    an    aim 

austere, 
But  opes  new  vistas,  and  a  pathway  clear. 


MAKIA:N~    DOUGLAS. 


MY  WINTER  FRIEND. 

THE  chickadee,  the  chickadee, — 

A  chosen  friend  of  mine  is  he. 

His  head  and  throat  are  glossy  black  ; 

He  wears  a  great  coat  on  his  back  ; 

His  vest  is  light, — 'tis  almost  white  ; 

His  eyes  are  round  and  clear  and  bright. 

He  picks  the  seeds  from  withered  weeds  ; 

Upon  my  table-crumbs  he  feeds  ; 

He  comes  and  goes  through  falling  snows  ; 

The  freezing  wind  around  him  blows, — 

He  heeds  it  not :  his  heart  is  gay 

As  if  it  were  the  breeze  of  May. 

The  whole  day  long  he  sings  one  song, 
Though  dark  the  sky  may  be  ; 

And  better  than  all  other  birds 
I  love  the  chickadee  ! 

The  bluebird  coming  in  the  spring, 
The  goldfinch  with  his  yellow  wing, 
The  humming-bird  that  feeds  on  pinks 
And  roses,  and  the  bobolinks, 
The  robins  gay,  the  sparrows  gray, — 
They  all  delight  me  while  they  stay. 

But  when,  ah  me  !  they  chance  to  see 
A  red  leaf  on  the  maple-tree, 
They  all  cry,  "  0,  we  dread  the  snow  !  " 
And  spread  their  wings  in  haste  to  go  ; 
And  when  they  all  have  southward  flown, 
The  chickadee  remains  alone. 

A  bird  that  stays  in  wintry  days, 

A  friend  indeed  is  he  ; 
And  better  than  all  other  birds 

I  love  the  chickadee  ! 


POLITICS. 

BILL  MORE  and  I,  in  davs  g-one  by, 
Were  friends  the  long  year  through, 

Save  when,  above  the  melting  snow, 
Wild  March  his  trumpet  blew. 

Outspoken  foes,  we  then  arose  ; 

Each  chose  a  different  way  ; 
For  March,  to  our  Xew  Hampshire  hills, 

Brings  back  town-meeting  day. 

Its  gingerbread  and  oranges, 

Alike,  on  Bill  and  me 
That  day  bestowed,  but  only  one 

Could  share  its  victory. 

For  what  was  victory  ?     We  had 

Opposing  views  of  that, 
For  Billy  was  an  old  line  Whig, 

And  1  a  Democrat. 


The  tide  of  politics  ran  high 

Among  the  village  boys, 
And  those  were  truest  patriots 

Who  made  the  greatest  noise. 

And  who  could  higher  toss  his  cap, 

Or  louder  shout  than  I  ? 
Till  all  the  mountain  echoes  learnt 

My  party-battle-cry  ! 

One  time — it  was  election  morn, — 

Beside  the  town-house  door, 
Among  a  troop  of  cheering  boys, 

I  came  on  Billy  More. 

"  Cheer  on  !  "  I  called  ;  "  I  would  not  give 

For  your  hurrahs  a  fig  ; 
But  say,  what  do  the  Whigs  believe  ? 

Speak,  Billy  !  you're  a  Whig." 

And  Bill  said  :  "  I  don't  know  nor  care; 

You  needn't  ask  me  that ; 
You'd  better  tell  me,  if  you  can, 

Why  you're  a  Democrat." 

And  T  commenced,  in  bold  disdain, 

"  What  ?  tell  you  if  I  can? 
I  ?     Why  my  father's  candidate 

For  second  selectman. 

"  And  he  knows — I  know — he  knows — lie— 

I  think— 1  feel— I— I— 
I — I — I  am  a  Democrat, — 

And  that's  the  reason  why." 

"  Ha  !  ha  ! "    the  mocking  shout  that  rose, — 

I  seem  to  hear  it  now, 
And  feel  the  hot,  tumultuous  blood 

That  crimsoned  cheek  and  brow  ! 

I  might  have  spared  my  blushes  then, 

I  should  have  kept  my  shame 
For  men,  grown  men,  who  fight  to-day, 

For  just  a  party  name  ! 

This  side  or  that,  they  cast  their  votes, 
And  pledge  their  faith,  and  why  ': 

Go  ask,  and  you  will  find  them  wise 
As  BiJly  More  and  I  ! 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MAY. 


FROM  out  his  hive  there  came  a  bee  : 

"  Has  spring-time  come,  or  not  ?"  said  he. 

Alone,  within  a  garden-bed, 

A  small,  pale  snowdrop  raised  its  head. 
"  'Tis  March,  this  tells  me,"  said  the  bee; 
"The  hive  is  still  the  place  for  me. 
The  day  is  chill,  although  'tis  sunny. 
And  icy  cold  this  snowdrop's  honey. 


47G 


MARIAN    DOUGLAS, 


Again  came  humming'  forth  the  bee  ; 

"  What  month  is  with  us  now  ?"  said  he. 

(iniy  crocus-blossoms,  blue  and  white 

And  yellow,  opened  to  the;  light. 

"  It  must  be  April,"  said  the  bee. 

"  And  April's  scarce  the  month  for  me. 

I'll  taste  these  flowers  (the  day  is  sunny), 

But  wait  before  1  gather  honey." 

Once  more  came  out  the  waiting  bee : 
"  'Tis  come  :  I  smell  the  spring  !  "  said  he. 
The  violets  were  all  in  bloom  ; 
The  lilac  tossed  a  purple  plume; 
The  datl'dill  wore  a  yellow-crown  ; 
The  cherry-tree  a  snow-white  gown  ; 
And  by  the  brookside,  wet  with  dew, 
The  early  wild-wake  robins  grew. 
"  It  is  the  May-time.!  "  said  the  bee, 
"  The  queen  of  all  the  months  for  me! 
The  flowers  are  here, the  sky  is  sunny: 
'Tis  now  my  time  to  gather  honey !  " 


CHIMNEY-TOPS. 

"  An  !  the  morning  is  gray; 
And  what  kind  of  a  day 
Is  it  likely  to  be?" 
"  You  must  look  up,  and  see 
What  the  chimney  pots  say. 

"If  the  smoke  from  the  mouth 
Of  the  chimney  goes  south 
'Tis  the  north  wind,  that  blows 
From  the  country  of  snows  : 

Look  out  for  rough  weather  ; 
The  cold  and  the  north  wind 

Are  always  together. 

"  When  the  smoke  pouring1  forth 
From  the  chimney  u'oes  north, 
A  mild  day  it  will  be, 
A  warm  time  we  shall  see  : 

The  south  wind  is  blowing 
From  lands  where  the  orange 

And  fig-trees  are  growing. 

"  But,  if  west  goes  the  smoke, 
(let  your  water-proof  cloak 
And  umbrella  about : 
'Tis  the  east  wind  that's  out. 

A  wet  day  you  will  find  it : 
Tho  east  wind  has  always 

A  storm  close  behind  it. 

"  It  is  east  the  smoke  flies  ! 
"We  may  look  for  blue  skies! 
Soon  the  clouds  will  take  flight, 
'Twill  be  sunny  and  bright;' 

The  sweetest  and  best  wind 
Is,  surely,  that  fair-weather 

Bringer,  the  west  wind." 


THE  YELLOW  CLOUD. 


"LOOK    up!     There's     just    one    cloud    in 

sight, — 

A  ydlow  cloud  as  sunshine  bright, 
That,  like  a  little  golden  boat, 
Across  the  clear  blue  seems  to  float. 


0  !  how  I  wish  that  cloud  were  ours, 
The  color  of  the  cowslip-flowers, 
And,  sitting  on  it,  you  and  I 
Were  gaily  sailing  round  the  sky  ! 
0  !  wouldn't  it  be  pleasant  ? 

O  !  should'nt  we  be  proud 
If  we  could  only  own  it, — 

That  little  ye'llow  cloud  ? 

"  As  free  as  birds  we  then  could  go 
V\  hatever  way  the  wind  might  blow, — 
Above  the  rivers  gleaming  bright, 
Above  the  hills  with  snowdrifts  white, 
Upon  the  tree-tops  looking  down, 
Upon  the  steeples  of  the  town. 
We  should  hear  far  below  us 

The  great  bells  ringing  loud. 
0  !  don't  you  wish  we  owned  it, — 

That  little  yellow  cloud  ?  " 

"  Why  wish  for  what  will  never  be  ? 

That  little  cloud  is  not  for  me  ; 

But  if  it  were,  and  you  and  I 

Were  on  it  sailing  round  the  sky, 

Who  knows  ?  we  might  be  wishing  then, 

'  0,  if  we  could  get  down  again  ! ' 

Tis  better  to  be  humble, 

By  far,  than  to  be  proud ; 
And  on  the  ground  we're  safer 

Than  sailing  on  a  cloud." 


THE  ROPE  DANCER. 

WHEN  I  was  seven — 0,  it  seems 

A  thousand  years  ago  ! 
My  sailor  uncle  took  me  out 

To  see  a  travelling  show. 
I  -wore,  I  can  remember  still, 
A  white  cape  with  a  plaited  frill  ; 
And,  through  the  green  fields,  to  the  tent, 
A  proud  and  happy  child,  I  went. 

The  usual  dwarf,  contrasted,  stood, 

Beside  the  giant,  there, 
And  to  a  squeaking  fiddle  danced 

A  well-instructed  bear  ; 
And  yards  of  ribbon,  pink  and  blue, 
From  out  his  throat,  a  juggler  drew  ; 
But,  when  the  last  performance  came, 
It  made  these  sights  seem  poor  and  tame. 

For,  lightlv  as  a  spider  runs 

Along  the  glistening  thread. 
Upon  a  slender  rope,  that  stretched 

High,  high  above  my  head, 
A  little  girl  tripped,  to  and  fro, 
And  did  not  cast  one  glance  below  ! 
A  girl?     It  rather  seemed  to  me 
That  fresh  from  fairy-land  was  she  ! 

She  had  a  poppy-colored  skirt, 

A  gown  of  golden  gauze, 
And  when  she  came  back  to  the  ground, 

The  tent  rang  with  applause  ; 
Well  pleased,  she  bowed  and  curt'sied  then, 
And  went  through  all  her  feats  again  ; 
Along  the  rope  I  saw  her  rise, 
With  throbbing  heart,  but  envious  eyes. 


MARIAN    DOUGLAS. 


477 


For,  as  I  watched  this  elf,  who  seemed 

Like  Beauty's  self,  to  me, 
Of  happy  lots,  the  happiest, 

I  thought  that  hers  must  be  ; 
Since  I,  poor  I,  could  never  hope, 
Like  her,  to  walk  upon  a  rope, 
I  felt,  and  felt  that  it  was  hard, 
I  was  from  life's  best  joy  debarred  ! 

But  as,  thus  murmuring  in  my  heart, 

And  filled  with  discontent, 
Beside  my  uncle,  with  the  crowd 

That  left  the  show,  I  went, 
He     pulled    my     sleeve,     and    whispered, 

"  See!" 

And,  lo  !  my  fairy,  close  to  me 
Was  standing,  speaking  with  the  dwarf. 
1  looked,  and  wished  her  further  off  ! 

For,  nearer  seen,  the  face  I  thought 
So  fair,  looked  pinched  and  brown  ; 

Begrimmed  and  frayed  the  scarlet  skirt, 
And  stained  the  golden  gown  ; 

How  clean,  I  can  remember  still, 

Beside  it,  seemed  my  cape's  white  frill ! 

I  felt  my  weakened  conscience  stir, 

To  think  how  I  had  envied  her ! 

And  when,  as  we,  together,  home, 
Walked  down  the  field's  green  slope, 

My  uncle  asked,  "  How  would  you  like 
To  dance  upon  a  rope, 

And  mount  as  high,  and  look  as  gay, 

As  did  the  girl  we  saw  to-day  ?  " 

I  only  shook  my  little  head, 

And  not  one  word,  in  answer,  said. 

ANT-HILLS. 


IN  their  small,  queer  houses, 
Each  one  with  a  round, 

Ever-open  doorway, 
Leading  under  ground, 

Living  in  my  flower-bed, 
Near  my  balsam  plants, 

Are,  at  least,  a  dozen 
Families  of  ants. 

Very  neat  and  quiet 

Working  folks  are  they, 

Cleaning  house  all  summer, 
From  the  first  of  May. 

In  and  out  their  doorways, 
Up  and  down  they  go, 

Bits  of  earth  and  gravel 
Bringing  from  below  ; 

Carrying  the  sand  grains 
From  their  rooms  away, 

Cleaning,  cleaning,  cleaning, 
Every  sunny  day. 

Labor  is  a  blessing  ; 

But  I  really  can't 
Think  it  would  be  pleasant 

To  grow  up  an  ant, 

And  be  always  busy, 

Cleaning  house  each  day, 

All  the  pleasant  summer, 
From  the  first  of  May ! 


THE  LOST  FLOWERS. 


ROSY  red  the  summer  sky  ; 
Rosy  red  the  fields  below, 
By  the  blooming  clover  tinged, 
Painted  by  the  sunset's  glow  ; 
Rosy  red  the  river's  breast, 
Softly  rippling  towards  the  west, 
While,  beneath  the  willow's  shade, 
Happy,  though  alone,  I  played. 

Brighter  was  my  childish  dream 

Than  the  river  or  the  sky  ; 

Floating  wild-flowers  down  the  stream, 

What  companion  needed  I  ? 

Sending  forth  a  fairy  fleet 

Of  midsummer  blossoms  sweet ! 

Meadow  lilies,  brown  and  gold, 

Trailing  wreaths  of  virgin's  bower, 

The  red  mulberry's  crimson  bloom, 

Jewel  weed  and  elder  flower ; 

Down  the  river's  murmuring  flow, 

One  by  one,  I  watched  them  go, 

Slowly  drifting,  till  the  last 

Lingering  flower  from  sight  had  passed, 

And  the  sky  above  grew  gray, 

Gray  beneath  the  river  grew, 

While  the  damp,  chill,  evening  mist 

Hid  the  clover-fields  from  view. 

Empty-handed,  half  afraid, 
Hastening  homewawl  in  the  shade, 
Sadly,  vainly,  wished  I  then, 
"  Would  I  had  my  flowers  again !  " 


ONE  SATURDAY. 

I  NEYER  had  a  happier  time, 

And  I  am  forty-three, 
Than  one  midsummer  afternoon, 

When  it  was  May  with  me : 
Life's  fragrant  May, 
And  Saturday, 

And  you  came  out  with  me  to  play  ; 
And  up  and  down  the  garden  walks, 

Among  the  flowering  beans, 
We  proudly  walked  and  tossed  our  heads, 

And  played  that  we  were  queens. 

Thrice  prudent  sovereigns,  we  made 

The  diadems  we  wore, 
And  fashioned  for  our  royal  hands, 

The  sceptres  which  they  bore  ; 
But  good  Queen  Bess 
Had  surely  less 

Than  we,  of  proud  self-consciousness, 
While  wreaths  of  honeysuckle  hung 

Around  your  rosy  neck, 
And  tufts  of  marigold  looped  up 

My  gown,  a  "  gingham  check." 

Our  chosen  land  was  parted  out, 

Like  Israel's,  by  lot ; 
My  kingdom,  from  the  garden  wall 
Reached  to  the  strawberry  plot ; 
The  onion-bed. 
The  beet-tops  red, 
The  corn  which  \vaved  above  my  head, 


478 


MARIAN    DOUGLAS. 


The  gooseberry  bushes,  hung  with  fruit, 

The  wandering  melon-vine, 
The  carrots  and  the  cabbages, 

All,  all  of  them,  were  mine  ! 

Beneath  the  cherry-tree  was  placed 

Your  tli rone,  a  broken  chair  ; 
Your  realm  was  narrower  than  mine, 

But  it  was  twice  as  fair: 
Tall  hollyhocks, 
And  purple  phlox, 
And  time-observing  four  o'clocks, 
Blue  lavender,  and  candytuft, 

And  pink  and  white  sweet  peas, 
Your  loyal  subjects,  waved  their  heads 

In  every  passing  breeze. 

Oh  !  gay  and  prosperous  was  our  reign 

Till  we  were  called  to  tea  ; — 
But  years,  since  then,  have  come  and  gone, 

And  I  am  forty-three  ! 
Yet,  journeying 
On  rapid  wing, 

Time  has  not  brought,  and  cannot  bring, 
For  you  or  me,  a  happier  day     . 

Than  when,  among  the  beans, 
We  proudly  walked  and  tossed  our  heads, 

And  fancied  we  were  queens. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BEE. 


Buzz-z-z-z-z-z,  buzz  ! 

This  is  the  song  of  the  bee. 
His  legs  are  of  yellow  ; 
A  jolly  good  fellow, 

And  yet  a  great  worker,  is  he. 

In  days  that  are  sunny, 
He's  getting  his  honey; 
In  days  that  are  cloudy, 

He's  making  his  wax  : 
On  pinks  and  on  lilies, 
And  gay  daffodillies, 
And  columbine  blossoms, 

He  levies  a  tax  ! 

Buzz-z-z-z-z-z,  buzz  ! 
The  sweet-smelling  clover, 
He,  humming,  hangs  over; 
The  scent  of  the  roses 

Makes  fragrant  his  wings; 
lie  never  gets  lazy  ; 
From  thistle  and  daisy, 
And  weeds  of  the  meadow, 

Some  treasure  he  brings. 

Buzz-z-z-z-z-z,  buz/  ! 

From  morning's  first  gray'light, 

Till  fading  of  day 'light. 

He's  singing  and  toiling 
The  summer  day  through. 

Oh.  we  may  get  weary, 

And  think  work  is  dreary: 

'Tis  harder,  by  far, 

To  have  nothing  to  do  ! 


THE  YEAR'S  LAST  FLOWER. 


WITCH-HAZEL  bough  !  Witch-hazel  bough ! 
Strange  time  it  seems  to  blossom  now  ! 
The  sky  is  gray,  the  birds  have  flown, 
With  rustling  leaves  the  ground  is  strown  ; 
The  May-time,  with  her  cowslip  crown, 
Sweet  Summer,  showering  rose-leaves  down, 
The  Autumn  days,  a  bannered  train, 
With  colors  like  the  flag  of  Spain, 
Have  come  and  gone,  without  the  power 
To  win  from  thee  a  single  flower ! 
But  now,  when  woods  and  fieldfc  are  bare, 
And  chill  with  coming  snow  the  air, 
All  wreathed  with    spring-like    bloom    art 

thou, 
All  decked  with  gold,  Witch-hazel  bough  ' 

Witch-hazel  bough  !     Witch-hazel  bough  ! 

Could  I  believe  old  stories  now, 

Within  my  hand,  were  I  a  witch, 

Thou  had'st  the  power  to  make  me  rich  ; 

To  prove  a  true  divining-rod, 

And  show  where,  under  stone  or  sod, 

Or  growing  tree,  or  running  brook, 

I  should  for  hidden  treasure  look  ! 

A  child,  I  sought  thy  charm  to  try, 

But  wo  is  me,  no  witch  am  I  ; 

For  never  gleam  of  elfin  gold 

'Twas  my  good  fortune  to  behold ; 

Xo  magic  dwells  in  me,  or  thou 

Hast  lost  thy  spell,  Witch-hazel  bough  } 

Witch-hazel  bough  !     Witch-hazel  bough  ! 

Though  wizards'  arts  are  powerless  now, 

A  high  resolve,  a  steadfast  will, 

A  fearless  heart  work  wonders  still. 

To  find  and  win  a  needful  store 

Of  goods,  and  gold,  and  wisdom's  lore, 

The  true  divining-rods  for  me, 

Henceforth  must  toil  and  patience  be  ! 

Then  welcome,  honest  Labor !     Thou 

Shalt  bloom  unplucked,  Witch-hazel  bough  ! 


TWO  PICTURES. 

AN  old  farm-house,  with  meadows  wide, 
And  sweet  with  clover  on  each  side  ; 
A  bright-eyed  boy,  who  looks  from  out 
The  door,  with  woodbine  wreathed  about, 
And  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day, — 
"  Oh,  if  I  could  but  fly  away 

From  this  dull  spot,  the  world  to  see, 
How  happy,  happy,  happy. 

How  happy  1  should  be  !  " 

Amid  the  city's  constant  din, 
A  man,  who  round  the  world  has  been, 
Who,  'mid  the  tumult  and  the  throng, 
Is  thinking,  thinking,  all  day  long, — 
"  Oh,  could  I  only  tread  once  more  . 
The  tield-path  to  the  farm-house  door, 

The  old  green  meadows  could  I  see, 
How  happy,  happy,  happy, 

How  happy  I  should  be  !  " 


MES.    LUCY    HAMILTON    HOOPEE. 


REVELRY. 

FILL  the  cup  till  o'er  the  brim 

Flows  the  bright  champagne. 
Here's  forgetfulness  of  grief, 

Balm  for  every  pain. 
Drink  !  we  watch  the  dying  hours 

Of.  the  dying  year. 
She  I  loved  is  dead  and  gone. 

Dead — and  I  am  here  ! 

Change  the  flask,  and  fill  the  glass 

With  the  red  Lafitte. 
If  there's  Lethe  upon  earth, 

This— 0  this  is  it ! 
Drink  !  till  o'er  the  purple  skies 

Morning  flushes  clear. 
You  are  dead,  O  love  of  mine  ! 

Dead — and  I  am  here  ! 

Pass  the  dusky  Cognac  here,  » 

Fill  a  stronger  draught,  * 

Richer  with  the  vine's  hot  life 

Than  the  last  we  quaffed. 
Drink  !  till  Mem'ry's  phantoms  pale 

Fade  and  disappear. 
Drink  !  till  I  forget  she's  dead  ! 

Dead — and  1  am  here! 


THE  DUEL. 


You  need  not  turn  so  pale,  love  ;  I'm  unhurt. 

We  quarreled  at  the  opera  last  night 
About  some  trine.     Nay,  I  scarce  know  what. 

We  men  will  quarrel  for  the  merest  slight. 
We  settled  time,  place, weapon,  on  the  spot; 

Bois  de  Boulogne,  this  morning,  pistols  — 

well, — 
I  fear  that  you  are  cold,  you  shudder  so, — 

At  the  first  shot  my  adversary  fell, 

Shot   through   the  heart,  stone-dead.     Nay, 

now,  don't  faint ! 
I  hate   a  fainting  woman.      Here's  your 

fan  ; 

A  little  water  ?     So,  you're  better  now. 
Pray,    hear    my   story   out,   love,    if    you 

can. 

I  think  he  uttered  something  as  he  fell : 
A  woman's  name — I   scarcely   caught   the 

sound  : 

.  It  passed  so  quickly  that  I  am  not  sure, 
For   he  was   dead   before   he  reached  the 
ground. 

Ah,  poor  de   Courcy  !     Handsome,    was   he 

not? 
A  favorite  with  the  ladies,  I  believe. 


They'll     miss    him  sadly.     More   than   one 

fair  dame 

Will  o'er  his  sudden  fate  in  secret  grieve. 
How   well   he   looked   this  morning,  as   he 

stood 

Waiting  my  fire  with  such  a  careless  grace, 
The  breezes  playing  with  his  raven  curls, 
The  sunshine   lighting  up  his  gay  bright 
face  ! 

Suppose  my  hand  had  trembled  ?     If  it  had, 
I    would    have    fallen    instead    of     him. 

You're  white 
At  the  bare  thought.     Nay,  here  I  am,  quite 

well, 

And  ready  for  the  opera  to-night. 
Ronconi  plays,  and  I  would  like  to  see 

"  Marie  de  Rohan"  once  or  twice  again. 
His  acting  as  De  Chevreuse  is  sublime  ; 
How   he   portrays   the  jealous  husband's 
pain  ! 

All  husbands  have  not  such  a  wife  as  you  ; 

Fair  as   the    sun,  and   chaste  as   winter's 

moon  ! 
How  very  pale  you  still  are,  dearest  wife  ! 

There  is  no  danger  of  another  swoon  ? 
How  wrong  I  was  to  tell  you  I  had  fought ; 

I  think   you've    scarce  recovered  from  the 

shock. 
One  kiss  upon  your  brow,  and  then  I'll  go  ; 

And  pray  be  readv,  love,  at  eig'ht  o'clock  ! 


RE-UNITED. 


You  are  dead,  and  I  am  dying ; 

We  shall  meet  before  the  morrow  ; 
All  our  lonely  years  are  ended  ; 

We  have  done  with  pain  and  sorrow. 
I  shall  see  you  ere  the  setting 

Of  yon  slowly  rising  moon. 
Ay,  we  knew  not  when  we  parted 

That  we'd  meet  again  so  soon. 

All  the  long  years  we  were  severed 

All  their  bitter  sorrows,  seem 
Like  the  pale  and  fading  phantoms 

Of  a  scarce-remembered  dream. 
And  my  heart  forgets  its  aching 

In  the  joy  that  thrills  it  now  ; 
There  are  none  to  come  between  us 

In  the  land  to  which  I  go. 

Do  you  know  that  I  am  coming  ? 

Do  you  watch  for  me  to-night  ? 
Do  you  wait  above  the  stars,  love, 

As  I  wait  beneath  their  light  ? 


480 


MRS.  LUCY  HAMILTON  HOOPER. 


Ah,  I  know  that  you  are  waiting 
In  your  fair  and  distant  home  ! 

We've  a  tryst  now,  O  beloved  ! 
Where  no  enemies  can  come. 

You  are  dead,  and  I  am  dying, 

Very  slowly,  but  at  last. 
And  I  trust  the  death-veiled  Future 

To  redeem  the  mournful  Past. 
Ne'er  was  pillow  pressed  so  gladly 

As  the  one  whereon  I'm  lying  ; 
For  I  know  you'll  greet  my  waking. 

You  are  dead,  and  I  am  dying  ! 

THE  KING'S  RIDE. 

ABOVE  the  city  of  Berlin 
Shines  soft  the  summer  day, 

And  near  the  royal  palace  shout 
The  schoolboys  at  their  play. 

Sudden  the  mighty  palace  gates 

Unclasp  their  portals  wide, 
And  forth  into  the  sunshine  see 

A  single  horseman  ride. 

A  bent  old  man  in  plain  attire  ; 

No  glitt'ring  courtiers  wait, 
No  armed  guard  attends  the  steps 

Of  Frederick  the  Great ! 

The  boys  have  spied  him,  and  with  shouts 

The  summer  breezes  ring. 
The  merry  urchins  haste  to  greet 

Their  well-beloved  king. 

Impeding  e'en  his  horse's  tread, 

Presses  the  joyous  train  ; 
And  Prussia's  despot  frowns  his  best, 

And  shakes  his  stick  in  vain. 

The  frowning  look,  the  angry  tone, 
Are  feigned,  full  well  they  know. 

They  do  not  fear  his  stick — that  hand 
Ne'er  .struck  a  coward  blow. 

"  Be  off  to  school,  you  boys  !  "  he  cries. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  the  laughers  i-ay, 
"A  pretty  king  you  not  to  know 

We've  holiday  to-day  !" 

And  so  upon  that  summer  day, 

Those  children  at  his  side, 
The  symbol  of  his  nation's  love, 

Did  royal  Frederick  ride. 

0  Kings  !  your  thrones  are  tott'ring  now ! 

Dark  frowns  the  brow  of  Fate  ! 
When  did  you  ride  as  rode  that  day 

King  Frederick  the  Great  V 


AT  THE  BAL  MABILLE. 


1  WAITED  near  the  Bal  Mabille, 

Beside  the  open  door, 
I  fain  would  see  the  face  that  I 
Shall  living  see  no  more. 

Outside,  the  silent  night  and  I  ; 

Inside,  the  joyous  din  : 
Alas!  that  Love  should  weep  without, 

And  ISin  should  laugh  within. 


You  passed  me  in  the  lamp -lit  street, 

With  flowers  in  your  hair, 
And  diamonds  upon  your  breast, 

So  beautiful — so  bare. 

Your  dress  of  rosy  moire  silk 
Swept  round  me  as  you  passed : 

You'll  find  a  stain  upon  its  folds — 
It  was  a  tear — my  last. 

I  scarcely  knew  the  face  I  loved 

A  few  brief  mouths  ago, 
For  there  was  paint  upon  your  cheek, 

A  brand  upon  your  brow. 

Now  I  shall  never  seek  you  more, 

Whate'er  your  fate  may  be. 
I  go  to  wait,  where  soon,  or  late, 

You'll  surely  come  to  me. 

Though  months  and  years  may  pass  away 

Before  we  meet  again, 
You  will  not  fail  to  keep  ids  tryst 

Beside  the  river  Seine. 

Dim  then  will  be  those  shameless  eyes, 
Those  mocking  lips  be  dumb  ; 

For  I  am  keeper  of  La  Morgue  : 
I  wait  there  till  you  come. 

You  will  not  come  with  painted  cheeks, 

In  flowers,  gems,  and  moire. 
Good-night,  0  woman  that  I  loved ; 

Good-night,  and  au  revoir. 


TOUCH  NOT. 


"SVo  still  u'in  Herz  von  Liebe  gluht. 

WHERE  glows  a  heart  with  silent  love 
Lay  not  thy  reckless  hand  thereon  ; 

Extinguish  not  the  heavenly  spark  ; 
Indeed,  indeed,  'twere  not  well  done  ! 

If  e'er  a  spot  all  unprofaned 

Is  found  upon  this  world  of  ours, 

It  is  a  youthful  human  heart 

When     first    it    yields    to     pure    Love's 
pow'rs. 

Oh,  grant  thou  still  the  dream  that  comes 
'Alid  rosy  blossoms  of  the  May  ! 

Thou  know'st  not  what  a  paradise 
Doth  with  that  vision  pass  awav. 

There  broke  full  many  a  valiant  heart 
When  love  was  reft  away  by  fate, 

And  many,  suff  ring,  wander  forth, 
Filled  with  all  bitterness  and  hate  ; 

And  many,  bleeding,  wounded  sore, 
Shriek  loud  for  hopes  forever  fled, 

And  mid  the  world's  dust  fling  them  down, — 
For  godlike  Love  to  them  was  dead. 

And  weep,  complain,  e'en  as  thou  wilt, 

Not  all  thy  penitence  and  pain 
Can  cause  a  faded  rose  to  bloom, 

Or  bid  a  dead  heart  live  again. 


MBS.  HAKEIET  PKESCOTT  SPOFFOKD. 


A  LOVER'S  GARDEN. 


I  THINK  the  white  azaleas,  dear, 
Shaped  out  of  air  to  match  thyself, 

Yet  doubt  if  thou  wilt  find  one  here 
Among  this  fragrant  flowery  pelf ; 

For  they  must  hide  when  thou  art  near — 

As  fair  as  moonlight  and  as  clear. 

But  any  rose  that  here  may  blow 
Is  not  one-half  so  sweet  as  thou, 

Though  petaled  white  with  flakes  of  snow — 
Yet  bind  no  spray  about  thy  brow  ; 

Let  the  voluptuous  roses  go, 

For  roses  have  a  thorn,  we  know. 

But  bend  and  do  not  pass  thee  by, 
Where  faintest  odors  hover  low  ; 

Here  the  dark  violets  ensky 

Meanings  that  should  not  'scape  thee  so, 

Since  in  their  heaven-deepened  dye 

Pure  dreams  of  perfect  passion  lie. 

And  here,  like  spirits  of  the  blest, 

The  golden  censer  in  the  hand, 
To  worship  and  to  praise  addressed, 

Rank  after  rank  the  lilies  stand, 
Long  for  a  place  upon  thy  breast, 
Ask  is  thy  smile  or  sunshine  best ! 

A  nd  flout  not  the  fair  fleur-de-lis 

That  lightly  nods  that  purple  plume — 

Flower  of  romantic  chivalry, 

All  France  bends  to  thee  in  its  bloom  ! 

A  royal  banner's  blazonry — 

Thy  sceptre  would  it  rather  be ! 

Where  float  the  moths,  the  bluebirds  sip, 
Where  breath  is  rapture  to  the  core, 

Where  honeysuckles  climb  and  slip — 
Linger,  and  say,  Had  Eden  more  ? 

Tiptoe  and  let  the  glad  things  drip 

Their  golden  honey  on  thy  lip  ! 

But  o'er  those  beds  of  blasting  blight, 
Blue  hoods  of  poison  and  the  tomb — 

That  blood-red  blossom,  a  delight 

To  look  at,  but  whose  touch  is  doom — 

Ah,  let  thy  foot  make  fleeting  flight 

Through  foxglove  and  through  aconite  ! 

Yet  breathe  thee  where  the  winds  outroll 
From  heliotropes  an  atmosphere 

Of  fullest  joy  and  vaguest  dole, 

That  makes  each  moment  deep  and  dear, 

While  dim  regrets  shall  fill  thy  soul, 

And  longings  for  some  unknown  goal. 

So  shall  these  buds  forever  bloom 
Around  thee  in  my  memory's  freak, 

The  strawberry-tree  refuse  thee  room, 
The  sweet-brier  spray  brush  by  thy  cheek 


And  thou  be  fresh  'mid  their  perfume, 
And  white  'mid  their  ensanguined  gloom. 

Then  flit  down  yonder  hawthorn  coast, 
The  ancient  lilac  alleys  thread, 

And  turn  the  labyrinth,  and  be  lost — 
That  one  day,  when  all  hope  is  dead, 

And  when  the  place  is  dreary  most, 

Haunt  it,  I  may,  with  thy  sweet  ghost ! 


AT  TWILIGHT. 

LIKE  some  bright  mounting  flame  our  life, 
New-kindled,  springs  and  sparkles, 

Now  soars  defiance  to  the  sun, 
Now  glooms  and  darkles  ; 

Here  from  the  ruby-hearted  glow 
Sweet  influence  round  it  shedding — 

Here  from  a  half-quenched  sullen  brand 
Dull  shadow  spreading. 

And  gathered  in  its  blither  blaze 
What  gay  friends  haply  cluster, 

Warmed  deeply  with  the  rosy  ray 
And  lightsome  lustre ! 

Full  soon  the  cheerful  guests  are  gone 
In  slow  departing  number, 

Close-curtained  from  the  murmuring  world- 
Each  to  his  slumber. 

And  down  on  the  deserted  hearth, 

In  dying,  fitful  flashes, 
The  lonely  fire  has  drooped  and  sunk 

And  fallen  in  ashes  ; 

Yet  part  of  that  immortal  flame 

Which,  far  in  deeps  of  even, 
Informs  the  white  and  sacred  stars 

And  dazzles  heaven ! 


VANITY. 

THE  sun  conies  up  and  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  day  and  night  are  the  same  as  one  ; 

The  year' grows  green  and  the  year  grows 

brown, 
And  what  is  it  all,  when  all  is  done  V 

Grains  of  sombre  or  shining  sand, 

Sliding  into  and  out  of  the  hand. 

And  men  go  down  in  ships  to  the  seas, 

And  a  hundred  ships  are  the  same  as  one  ; 

And  backward  and  forward  blows  the  breeze, 
And  what  is  it  all,  when  all  is  done? 

A  tide  with  never  a  t-diore  in  sight 

Setting  steadily  on  to  the  night. 


482 


MRS.    HARRIET    PRESCOTT    SPOFFORD. 


The  fisher  droppeth  his  net  in  the  stream, 
And  a  hundred  streams  are  the  same  as 
one  ; 

And  the  maiden  dreameth  her  love-lit  dream, 
And  what  is  it  all,  when  till  is  done  ? 

The  net  of  the  fisher  the  burden  breaks, 

And  alway  the  dreaming  the  dreamer  wakes. 


FLOWER  SONGS. 


1.— THE  VIOLET. 

SOAR,    solemn    heavens,     your   splendid 

height, 

And  then  in  flashing  darkness  bend, 

Wrap  the  sweet  earth  about  with  night, 

Aird  wide  dim  fields  from  end  to  end, 

Lying  far  off  and  low, 
Serenely    with  your  brooding   mystery 
blend. 

Slumber,  sweet  earth  !     Thy  lofty  shade 

Glows  with  the  shining  phantom  dreams 
That  haunt  thee  nightly.     Music  made 
By    burdened     boughs     and     rustling 
streams, 

Now  falling  hushed  and  slow, 
Remotely  lapped  in  dewy  silence  seems. 

And  ever  blow  between,  faint  air, 
Blow  with  light,  hesitating  breath, 

From  melancholy  places  where 
Perpetual  fragrance  wandereth. 
O'er  grave  and  garden  blow, 
Over  warm  life,  and  over  lonely  death. 

And  while  the  murmur  rang,  the  sudden  stir 

Of  branches  tost  in  a  tumultuous  gust 

Of  showers  and  sweetness,  darkling,  swept 

the  brow 

And  passed.    And  through  the  fluted  melody 
There  breathed  that  sound  that  silence  lis 
tens  to — 

The  crickets  chirping  their  unbroken  strain 
On  th'  hill-side,  in  the  black  warm  summer 

night, 

Thrill  of  ethereal  tone,  as  if  were  heard 
The  rustle  of  the  great  orb's  wings  through 

space 

What  time  the  brede  of  stars  its  lustre  floats 
In  self-poised  circles,  and  the  dusk  is  deep. 

And  then,  as  when  across  one's  rarest  dream, 
Just  drawing  off  from  the  rich  dregs  of  sleep, 
A  cheery  cry  comes,  and  a  broken  tune, 
And  in  the  covert  of  their  odorous  depths 
The  robins  shake  their  wild  wet  wings  and 

flood 

The  shallow  shores  of  dawn  with  music,  till 
The  world  is  rosy — so  another  voice 
Stole  toward  me,  and  I  saw  the  hyacinth 
With  its  white  helmet  part  the  sun-soaked 

sod. 
And   heard,  as   if  from  out  the  bells  that 

wreathe 
Its  spire   of  piercing  perfume  dropped  the 

tones 
Like  rain-drops  tinkling  in  a  way-side  pool. 


II.— THE   HYACINTH. 

ON  topmost  twigs  when  morning  burns 

And  lights  his  trembling  fires, 
When  from  his  wing  the  glad  bird  spurns 
The  dew,  and  with  his  carol  yearns 

And  to  heaven's  gate  aspires — 
The  Maker  looks  upon  his  world 

That  puts  her  beauty  bare, 
All  freshly,  fragrantly  inipearled 

Beneath  the  tender  air, 
Looks  on  his  soft  and  gleaming  world 
And  smiles  to  find  her  fair. 
Then  waken,  waken, 
The  earth  has  taken 
Into  the  sunshine  her  wondrous  way ; 
Then  waken,  waken, 
The  dews  are  shaken 
Loose  from  the  leaves  and  melt  away, 
Lost  in  the  beautiful  light  of  day ! 

Here  the  clear  singing  of  the  joyous  sprite 
Startled  the  echoes  of  that  underworld 
Where  buds  lie  sleeping — straight  the  silent 

bush 

Beside  me  quivered  in  the  happy  light ; 
The  red  sap  mounted  along  stem  and  spray, 
In  countless  hurried  convolutions  whirled 
To  break  at  once  into  the  perfect  flower — 
The  perfect  flower — proud  was  the  song  she 

sung. 

III.— THE  ROSE. 

I  AM  the  one  rich  thing  that  morn 
Leaves  for  the  ardent  noon  to  win ; 

Grasp  me  not,  I  have  a  thorn, 

But  bend  and  take  my  fragrance  in. 

The  dew-drop  on  my  bosom  gives 

The  whole  of  heaven  to  searching  eyes, 

Only  he  who  sees  it  lives, 

And  only  he  who  slights  it  dies. 

Ah,  what  bewildering  warmth  and  wealth 
Gather  within  my  central  fold  ! 

Love-lorn  airs  of  happy  health 
Hive  with  the  honey  that  I  hold. 

This  dazzling  ruddiness  divine 

Shrouds  spicy  savors  deep  and  dear, 

Passion's  sign  and  countersign, 
The  inmost  meaning  of  the  sphere 

Petal  on  petal  opening  wide, 

My  being  into  beauty  flows — 
Hundred-leaved  and  damask-dyed — 

Yet  nothing,  nothing  but  a  rose  ! 

And  shaking  off  a  sudden  passionate  tear 
The  rose  ceased  warble,  and  in  an  ecstasy 
Shed  all  her  lovely  leaves  around  my  feet 
And  stood  discrowned. 

Then  gently  was  I  'ware 
Of  a  pure  breath  from  that  delicious  hour 
When  day  sweeps  all  her  glory  after  her 
To  fresh  horizons — rapt  and  holy  tone 
Where  lingered  yet  the  note  that  haply  fell 
From  seraphs  leaning  o'er  the  battlements 
Of  shining  tower  and  rampart  far  above, 
And  ever  in  their  idlesse  singing  praise. 


MRS.  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


483 


IV.— THE  LILY. 

Lift  thine  eyes,  against  the  deepening  skies 
All  the  sacred  hills  like  altars  glow, 

Waiting  for  the  hastening  sacrifice 
Ere  the  evening  winds  begin  to  blow. 

Lift  thy  heart,  and  let  the  prayer  depart 
To  meet  the  heavenly  flame  upon  the 

height, 

Till  all  thy  shadows  into  splendor  start, 
And  the  calm  brain  grow  clear  with  still 
delight ! 

PEACE. 


OH  that  the  bells  in  all  these  silent  spires 
Would  clash  their  clangor  on  the  sleeping 

air, 
Ring  their  wild  music  out  with  throbbing 

choirs, 
Ring  peace  in  everywhere  ! 

Oh  that  this  wave  of  sorrow  surging  o'er 
The   red,  red  land  would  wash   away  its 

stain — 
Drown  out  the    angry   fire  from    shore  to 

shore, 
And  give  it  peace  again  ! 

On  last  year's  blossoming  graves,  with  sum 
mer  calm, 

Loud  in  his  happy  tangle  hums  the  bee  ; 
Nature  forgets  her  hurt,  and  finds  her  balm — 

Alas  !  and  why  not  we  ? 

Spirit  of  God !  that  moved  upon  the  face 
Of  the   waters,   and  bade   ancient    chaos 

cease, 
Shine,    shine    again    o'er    this    tumultuous 

space, 
Thou  that  art  Prince  of  Peace  ! 


MUSIC  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

WHEN  stars  pursue  their  solemn  flight, 

Oft  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 

A  strain  of  music  visits  me, 

Hushed  in  a  moment  silverly— 

Such  rich  and  rapturous  strains  as  make 

The  very  soul  of  silence  ache 

With  longing  for  the  melody. 

Or  lovers  in  the  distant  dusk 
Of  summer  gardens,  sweet  as  musk, 
Pouring  the  blissful  burden  out, 
The  breaking  joy,  the  dying  doubt ; 
Or  revelers — all  flown  with  wine, 
And  in  a  madness  half  divine, 
Beating  the  broken  tune  about. 

Or  else  the  rude  and  rolling  notes 

That  leave  some  strolling  sailors'  throats, 

Hoarse  with  the  salt  sprays,  it  may  be, 

Of  many  a  mile  of  rushing  sea  ; 

Or  some  high-minded  dreamer  strays 

Late  through  the  solitary  ways, 

Nor  heeds  the  listening  night,  nor  me. 

Or  how  or  whence  those  tones  be  heard, 
Hearing,  the  slumbering  soul  is  stirred, 


As  when  a  swiftly  passing  light 
Startles  the  shadows  into  flight, 
While  one  remembrance  suddenly 
Thrills  through  the  melting  melody — 
A  strain  of  music  in  the  night. 

Out  of  the  darkness  bursts  the  song, 
Into  the  darkness  moves  along  ; 
Only  a  chord  of  memory  jars, 
Only  an  old  wound  burns  its  scars, 
As  the  wild  sweetness  of  the  strain 
Smites  the  heart  with  passionate  pain, 
And  vanishes  among  the  stars. 


HEREAFTER. 


LOVE,  when  all  these  years  are  silent,  van 

ished  quite  and  laid  to  rest, 
When  you  and  I  are  sleeping,  folded  into 

one  another's  breast, 
When  no  morrow  is  before  us,  and  the 

long  grass  tosses  o'er  us, 
And  our  grave  remains  forgotten,  or  by  alien 

footsteps  pressed — 

Still  that  love  of  ours  will  linger,  that  great 
love  enrich  the  earth, 

Sunshine   in  the  heavenly    azure,    breezes 

blowing  joyous  mirth ; 
Fragrance  fanning  off  from  flowers,  mel 
ody  of  summer  showers, 

Sparkle   of  the   spicy   wood-fires  round  the 
happy  autumn  hearth. 

That's  our  love.     But  you  and  I,  dear — shall 

we  linger  with  it  yet, 
Mingled  in  one   dew-drop,    tangled  in  one 

sunbeam's  golden  net, 
On  the  violet's  purple  bosom,  I  the  sheen, 

but  you  the  blossom — 
Stream   on  sunset   winds   and  be  the  haze 

with  which  some  hill  is  wet  ? 

Or,  beloved— if  ascending— when   we  have 

endowed  the  world 
With  the  best  bloom  of  our  being,  whither 

will  our  way  by  whirled, 
Through   what   vast    and   starry    spaces, 

toward  what  awful  holy  places, 
With  a  white  light  on  our  faces,  spirit  over 

spirit  furled  ? 

Only  this  our  yearning  answers — whereso'er 
that  way  defile. 

Not  a  film   shall   part  us  through  the  aeons 

of  that  mighty  while, 

In  the  fair  eternal  weather,  even  as  phan 
toms  still  together, 

Floating,  floating,  one   forever,  in  the  light 
of  God's  great  smile  ! 


DAYBREAK. 

THROUGH  rosy  dawns  of  June  I  go, 
Again  the  deepening  sweetness  part, 

While  all  their  raptures  round  me  flow 
And  bubble  freshly  in  my  heart. 


484 


MRS.    HARRIET    PRESCOTT    SPOFFORD. 


The  broad  blue  mountains  lift  their  brows 
"Barely  to  bathe  them  in  the  blaze  ; 

The  bobolinks  from  silence  rouse 
And  Hash  along  melodious  ways  ; 

And  hid  beneath  the  grasses,  wet 
With  long  carouse,  a  honeyed  crew, 

Anemone  and  violet, 

Yet  rollicking  are  drunk  with  dew. 

How  soft  the  wind  that  blows  my  hair — 
That  steals  the  song  off  from  my  lip, 

And  mounts  in  gladder  tumult  where 
The  murmurous  branches  bend  and  dip! 

How  proudly  smiling  on  his  love 
The  sun  rides  up  the  central  blue, 

While  like  the  wing  of  summer's  dove 
She  changes  to  his  changing  view — 

All  loveliness  in  every  light, 

Voluptuous  beauty  o'er  her  strewn, 

A  thing  to  lap  the  soul's  delight 
While  morning  widens  into  noon  ! 


NOCTUKNE. 


IN  the  soft,  starless  summer  night 
No  murmur  swims  along  the  air, 

Wrapped  in  her  dim  and  dusky  veil, 
Earth  seems  to  slumber  everywhere. 

All  the  still  dews  in  hiding  lie, 

With  unrobbed  sweetness  droops  the  rose, 
Nor  up  nor  down  the  garden  walks 

A  slight  or  stealthy  zephyr  blows. 

Darkness  and  hush,  profoundest  peace  ; 

The  falling  leaf  forgets  to  float ; 
When  with  one  deep  and  mighty  throb 

Along  the  headland  strikes  the  rote  ! — 

Strikes  with  the  awful  undertone 

Of  some  great  storm's  tremendous  blast, 

That  far  through  white  mid-seas  ploughs  on 
To  scream  around  a  broken  mast ! 

But  here  the  swell  shall  heave  to  shore 

A  muffled  music,  till  it  seems 
The  trouble  of  the  sea  become 

Only  the  burden  of  a  dream  ! 


MAGDALEN. 


IF  any  woman  of  us  all, 

If  any  woman  of  the  street, 
Before  the  Lord  should  pause  and  fall, 

And  with  her  long  hair  wipe  his  feet — 

He  whom  with  yc!irnin«r  hearts  we  love, 
And  fain  would  ^<-e  with  human  eyes 

Around  our  living  pathway  move, 
And  underneath  our  daily  skies — 

The  Maker  of  the  heavens  and  earth, 
The  Lord  of  life,  the  Lord  of  death, 

In  whom  the  universe  had  birth, 

But  breathing  of  our  breath  one  breath, 


If  any  woman  of  the  street 

Should  kneel,  and  with  the  lifted  mesh 
Of  her  long  tresses  wipe  his  feet, 

And  with  her  kisses  kiss  their  flesh — 

How  round  that  woman  would  we  throng, 
How  willingly  would  clasp  her  hands 

Fresh  from,  that  touch  divine,  and  long 
To  gather  up  the  twice-blest  strands  ! 

How  eagerly  with  her  would  change 

Our  idle  innocence,  nor  heed 
Her  shameful  memories  and  strange, 

Could  we  but  also  claim  that  deed ! 


A  SIGH. 

IT  was  nothing  but  a  rose  I  gave  her, 

Nothing  but  a  rose 
Any  wind  might  rob  of  half  its  savor, 

Any  wind  that  blows. 

When  she  took  it  from  my  trembling  fingers 

With  a  hand  as  chill — 
Ah,  the  flying  touch  upon  them  lingers, 

Stays,  and  thrills  them  still ! 

Withered,  faded,  pressed  between  the  pages, 

Crumpled  fold  on  fold — 
Once  it  lay  upon  her  breast,  and  ages 

Cannot  make  it  old ! 


ALIVE. 

WHEN  the  wild-  wake  robin  starts  in  the 

wood 
At  the  joy  of  the  earth  who  escapes  her 

bars, 

And  the  birches  flutter  in  breezy  mood, 
And  the  quick  brooks  run  and  sing  in  the 

sun 

To  some  strain  of  the  song  of  the  morn 
ing  stars ; 

When  the  gay  rhodoras  throng  the  swamp, 

Like  a  settling  cloud  of  winged  things 
All  a-quiver  in  purple  pomp, 
And  their  green  and  gold  the  ferns  unfold 
To  the  far-heard  murmur  of  hastening 
springs ; 

When  trillums  nod,  and  the  columbines 
Spread  like  flames  through  the  forest 

gloom  ; 

When  in  open  field  the  white-weed  shines, 
And  the  birds  and  bees  in  the  apple-trees 
Dart    through    skies    of    blue    and    of 
bloom  ; 

When  the  whole  bright   orb   is   flashing 

along 
With  her  cloudy  gossamers  round  her 

curled, 

A  thing  of  blossom  and  leaf  and  song — 
Still,  I  cry,  is  He  far  as  the  farthest  star, 
Or  living  and  pulsing  across  His  world  ? 


MARY.    N.    PEESCOTT. 


A  LULLABY. 

HUSH,  liusli,  my  sweet ; 

Rest,  rest  thy  tired  feet ; 
Forget  the  storms  and  tears  of  thy  brief 
hours  ; 

There's  naught  shall  thee  distress, 

Wrapt  in  sleep's  blissfulness, 
Crowned  by  a  dream  of  flowers. 

Hush,  dearest,  hush ; 

May  no  intruder  brush 
From  off  thy  bloomy  cheek  the  downy  kiss  ; 

May  no  unquiet  fly 

Go  rudely  buzzing  by, 
To  snatch  away  thy  bliss. 

May  dreams  enchanted  spread 

A  pillow  for  thy  head, 
And  hang  a  curtain* 'twixt  thee  and  the  sun  ; 

While  smiles  shall  overflow 

Thy  rosy  lips,  as  though 
The   angels'   whispers   were  too  sweet  for 
one. 

Then  sleep,  my  baby,  dear  ; 

Yet,  lest  the  traitor,  Fear, 
Should  cry,  "  The  child  will  waken  never 
more  ! " 

Stir  in  thy  dreams  anon, 

Bidding  the  thought  begone, 
And  lift  thine  eyes  to  bless  me  as  before  ! 


ROCK,  LITTLE  NEST. 

ROCK  in  the  wind,  little  nest ; 
When  you  are  full,  life  is  best ; 
Soon  enough  wings  will  be  grown, 
Flutter,  and  leave  you  alone. 

Rock  in  the  wind,  little  nest ; 
Say,  what  are  storms  to  the  blest  ? 
Though  you  should  tremble  and  fall, 
God  cares  for  sparrows  and  all ! 

Rock,  little  nest ;  like  a  song 
All  the  sweet  days  fleet  along ; 
Winter  will  presently  come, 
Making  you  vacant  and  dumb  ! 


A  TEAR. 

WHEN  the  long  green  grass  waves  o'er  me, 

And  no  summers  are  before  me  ; 

When  the  bitter  wind's  increase 

In  no  wise  disturbs  my  peace  ; 

When  the  spring's  sweet  thrill,  as  once, 

Wakes  in  rue  no  quick  response, 


Will  you,  dear,  in  losing  me, 
Lose  the  bloom  of  sky  and  sea  ? 

When  the  brown  bees'  busy  hum 
Does  not  reach  me,  cold  and  dumb  ; 
When  the  scent  of  the  wild  rose 
Breathes  the  sadness  of  repose, 
Where  no  tender  voice  is  heard, 
Heart-sick  sigh  or  whispered  word  ; 
When  for  me  all  seasons  fail, 
Will  your  love,  sweet,  still  prevail? 

Happier  far  the  grave's  seclusion, 
Where  your  love  may  seek  intrusion, 
Than  the  summer's  wasted  sweetness, 
Barren  of  that  love's  completeness. 
Mouldering  underneath  the  sod, 
Waiting  on  the  will  of  God, 
Heaven  itself  would  yet  seem  near, 
Should  you  drop  there,  sweet,  a  tear ! 


TO-DAY. 

TO-DAY  the  sunshine  freely  showers 
Its  benediction  where  we  stand  ; 

There's  not  a  passing  cloud  that  lowers 
Above  this  pleasant  summer-land  : 

Then  let's  not  waste  the  sweet  to-day— 
To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

Perhaps  to-morrow  we  may  be 
(Alas  !  alas  !  the  thought  is  pain !) 

As  far  apart  as  sky  and  sea, 

Sundered,  to  meet  no  more  again  : 

Then  let  us  clasp  thee,  sweet  to-day — 
To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 

The  daylight  fades ;  a  purple  dream 
Of  twilight  hovers  overhead, 

While  all  the  trembling  stars  do  seem 
Like  sad  tears  yet  unshed  : 

Oh,  sweet  to-day,  so  soon  away  ! 

To-morrow,  who  can  say  ? 


SONG. 

SLIPPING,  drifting  with  the  tide, 
All  the  summer  twilight  through, 

While  in  heaven  the  stars  abide, 
In  my  heart  sweet  dreams  of  you. 

Echoes  following  from  the  shore 
Seem  the  chorus  of  our  song, 

Summer  odors  blown  before 
Float  the  tune  along. 


MARY    N.    PRESCOTT. 


Shall  we  linger  till  the  day 

Paints  the  earth  a  thing  divine  ? 

Spread  the  sail  and  haste  away 

Where  the  distant  breakers  shine  ? 

Held  within  their  fearful  grasp, 
Would  they  crush  us  like  a  shell  ? 

Dying,  dearest,  in  your  clasp 
All  would  yet  be  well ! 


TWO  MOODS. 

I  PLUCKED  the  harebells  as  I  went 

Singing  along  the  river-side  ; 

The  skies  above  were  opulent 

Of  sunshine.     "  Ah  !  whate'er  betide, 

The  world  is  sweet,  is  sweet,"  I  cried, 

That  morning  by  the  river-side. 

The  curlews  called  along  the  shore ; 
The  boats  put  out  from  sandy  beach  ; 
Afar  I  heard  the  breakers'  roar, 
Mellowed  to  silver-sounding  speech  ; 
And  still  I  sang  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
"  The  world  is  sweet  for  evermore  I  " 

Perhaps,  to-day,  some  other  one, 
Loitering  along  the  river-side, 
Content  beneath  the  gracious  sun, 
May  sing,  again,  "  Whate'er  betide, 
The  world  is  sweet."     I  shall  not  chide, 
Although  my  song  is  done. 


A  SONG. 

'Tis  not  the  murmuring  voice  of  Spring 
That  stirs  my  heart  and  makes  me  sing  ; 
'Tis  not  the  blue  skies,  bubbling1  o'er 
With  sunshine  spilled  along  earth's  floor  ; 
Nor  yet  the  flush  of  bursting  rose, 
>><>!•  bloom  of  any  flower  that  grows. 

It  is  that  long,  long  years  ago, 
When  all  the  world  was  blushing  so — 
It  is  that  then  my  cheek  blushed  too, 
My  heart  beat  fast  for  love  and  you  : 
There  was  a  music  in  the  air 
I  fail  to  find  now  anywhere. 

Ami  so,  when  Spring  comes  wandering  by, 
I  lose  the  thread  of  misery  ; 
Trusting  the  promise  of  her  days, 
I  tune  my  voice  to  sing  her  praise, 
And  cheat  myself  with  the  sweet  pain 
That  in  the  spring  Love  blooms  again. 


ASLEEP. 

SOUND  asleep  :  no  sigh  can  reach 

Him  who  dreams  the  heavenly  dream 

No  to-morrow's  silver  speech 

Wake  him  with  an  earthly  theme. 

Summer  rains  relentlessly 

Patter  where  his  head  doth  lie  ; 

There  the  wild  fern  and  the  brake 

All  their  summer  leisure  take. 

Violets  blinded  with  the  dew, 

Perfume  lend  to  the  sad  rue, 

Till  the  day  breaks,  fair  and  clear, 

And  no  shadow  doth  appear. 


THE  BROOK. 

"  O  I  am  tired  ! "  said  the  brook,  complain 

ing, 

"  I  fain  would  stop  a  little  while  to  rest ; 
The  clouds  would  weary  were  they  always 

raining  ; 
The  bird,  if  she  forever  built  her  nest ! 

"  The  stars  withdraw  from  heaven  and  cease 

their  shining, 

The  sun  himself  drops  down  into  the  west. 
I  fain  would  stop,"  the  brook  kept  on  repir  • 

ing, 

"  And  catch  my  breath,  and  be  an  instant 
blessed. 

"  All  day  a  voice  calls,  '  Follow,  dearest,  fol 
low/ 

And  toiling  on,  I  seek  to  reach  the  goal, 
Nor  pause  to  list  to  yonder  happy  swallow, 

Telling  in  song  the  secret  of  his  soul.'' 

"  O  foolish  brook  !  "  the  wind  blew   in  re 
plying, 

"  Am  1  not  always  with  you  on  the  wing  ? 
Cease  your  fond  mourning,  cease  your  weary 

sighing, 

And  thank  your  stars  for  such  companion 
ing  ! " 

The  sun  came  up  across  the  silver  dawning, 
And  hung  a  golden  flame  against  the  sky  ; 

He  dallied  not  to  drink  the  dews  of  morning, 
And  when  the  night  fell ;  lo  !  the  brook  was 

dry! 

At  rest  !  at  rest !  no  more  of  toil  unceasing ; 

No  watering  of  the  roots  of  shrub  or  tree  ; 
No  hoarding  from  the  rain,  nor  still  increas 
ing1, 

To  lose  itself,  at  last,  within  the  sea ! 


THE  END. 


INDEX    OF 

NAMES    OF    AUTHOKS. 

I'AGE 

360 

A 

Allen  Elizabeth  Akers  Mrs 

PAGE 
401 

L 

Larcom,  Lucy,  Miss  

B 

225 

Lawson,  Mary  Lockhart,  Miss  
Lazarus,  Emma,  Miss  

386 
473 

Lee,  Eleanor,  Mrs  

333 

Lee,  Mary  E.,  Miss  

216 
263 

164 

Lewis,  Sarah  Anna,  Mrs  

357 

Lipplncott,  Sara  J..  Mrs  

390 

28 

Liszt,  Harriet  Winslow,  Mrs. 

354 

137 

Little,  Sophia  L.,  Mrs  

107 

Bolt  oil   Sarah  T     Mrs 

308 

Loud,  Margaret  St.  Leon,  Mrs  

HI 

232 

Lowell,  Maria,  Mrs  

38d 

Bradley,  Mary  E.,  Mrs  

432 

M 
May,  Caroline,  Miss  

346 

Bradctreet  Anne  Mrs 

17 

69 

Brooks  Mary  E    Mrs 

139 

"  Mav  Edith,"  Miss  

362 

c 

Campbell,  Juliet  H.  L.,Mrs  

..  355 

Mayo,  Sarah  Edgarton,  Mrs. 

298 

McCartee.  Jessie  G.,  Mrs 

131 

Meigs,  Mary  Noel,  Mrs.  .     

.  270 

Moulton  Louise  Chandler  Mrs 

447 

Canfield  Francesca  Pascalis  Mrs   . 

135 

N 
Nichols.  Rebecca  S.,  Mrs  

316 

Cooke,  Rollin,  Mrs.  (Rose  Terry). 

409 

Cure)',  .Alice  Miss 

372 

372 

Case,  Luella  J.  B.,  Mrs.  .   . 

306 

0 

Oakes-Smith,  Elizabeth,  Mrs  

..  177 

Chandler,  Caroline  H    Mrs 

352 

Chandler.  Elizabeth  Margaret,  Miss  ..   . 

149 

Child,  Lydia  Maria,  Mrs. 

110 

Oliver,  Sophia  Helen,  Mrs  

214 

D 

Davidson,  Lucretia,  Miss 

152 

Oso'ood  Frances  Sargent  Mrs. 

272 

Os^ood  Kate  Putnam  Miss 

437 

P 

Pierson,  Lydia  Jane,  Mrs  
Perry,  Nora,  Misa  

256 
465 

Of) 

Davidson.  Margaret,  Miss  
Day,  Martha,  Miss  
Dinnios.  Anna  Peyre.  Mrs  

..  152 
328 
208 

Docld,  Mary  Ann  Hanmer,  Miss  
Dorr,  Julia  C.  R.,  Mrs  
D'Ossoli,  Marchioness,  Margaret  Fuller... 
Douglas,  Marian,  Miss  

E 

Eames,  Elizabeth  Jessup,  Mrs. 

229 
423 
251 
475 

246 

Phillips.  Anne  H.,  Miss  
Piatt,  S.  M.  B.,  Mrs  
Pindar  Sn-'an    Miss 

399 

443 
.  343 

Prescott,  Mary  N.,  Miss  
Preston,  Margaret  J.,  Mrs  

R 

485 
460 

267 

Ellet,  Elizabeth  J.,  Mrs  

199 
143 

Embury.  Emma  C.,  Mrs  

468 

Esling,  Catharine  H.,  Mrs  

217 

33 

F 

Faugeres,  Margaretta  V.,  Mrs.. 
Ferguson,  Elizabeth  Gneme,  Mrs... 
Follen,  Eliza  L.,  Mrs  

35 
24 
121 

S 
Sawyer,  Caroline  M.,  Mrs  
Scott,  Julia  H.,  Mrs  
Sigou  rney,  Lydia  Huntley,  Mrs  

218 
206 
H 

Fuller,  Frances  A.,  Miss  
Fuller,  Metta  V.,  Miss  

G 

Gray,  Jane  L.  ,  Mrs  

368 
368 

104 

Sproat,  Eliza  L.,  Miss  
Smith,  Emeline  S.,  Mrs  

353 
259 
212 

.  157 

Stephens,  Ann  S.,  Mrs  

210 

Green,  Frances  H.,  Mrs  
Gilman.  Caroline,  Mrs  

123 
52 

St.  John,  A.  R..  Mrs  
Stoddard,  Elizabeth.  Mrs  

...  211 
415 

Gould,  Hannah  F.,Miss  

H 

Hale,  Sarah  Josepha,  Mrs... 
Hall,  Louisa  J.,  Mrs  
Haven,  Alice  G.,  Mrs  

45 

75 
Ill 
349 

Stoddard.  Lavinia,  Mrs  

428 

T 
Taggart,  Cynthia,  Miss  
Talley.  Susan  Archer,  Miss  

133 
311 
450 

Hooper,  Lucy,  Miss  
Hooper.  Lucy  Hamilton,  Mrs  
Howe,  Julia  Ward,  Mrs  
Hunt,  Helen,  Mrs..  . 

288 
479 
321 
457 

Thurston,  Laura  M..  Mrs  
Townsend,  Eliza,  Miss  .  

W 
Ward  Julia  Ru«h  Mrs                   

2-27 
38 

.     90 

J 

Jacobs,  Sarah  S.,  Miss  
James,  Maria,  Miss 

303 
66 

102 

WarfiVld,  Catharine,'  Mrs  
Warren,  Mercy,  Mrs  

..  333 
21 

Judson,  Emily  C.,  Mrs  

K 

Kimball.  Harriet  McEwen  Miss 

241 
471 

W<jlby.  Amelia  B.,  Mrs  
Wells,  Anna  Mario,  Mrs  

325 
63 
1(16 

Whitney  'Adeline  D  T.  Mrs                     ... 

453 

Woodman   Hannah  J    Miss      

..   ..  310 

Kinney,  E.  C.,  Mrs              ' 

195 

...  260 

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